Barry now entered upon a period of existence widely different from any he had known. Danbazzar’s camp was in the neck of a wâdi on the north of the caravan route from Thebes to Farshût. Further north, and visible from the tents, on the summit of a mountain stood an ancient watchtower, used in the days of the Pharaohs by the tomb guard. All about were remains of stone huts which had probably been the quarters of these guards. On the right, above terraced, desolate hills covered with débris of abandoned excavations, rose the stately mass of El Kurn, the Horn.

Here in this weird quarry to which no one ever penetrated, they had their base of operations. The native excavators, in charge of a headman who proved to be one of the group that had been seated outside the Luxor café, had their quarters several miles distant, in a sort of tumbledown village principally inhabited by dogs. Native life in the towns had offered novel features, but the conditions prevailing in this desert village surpassed anything Barry could have imagined. An entire absence of sanitary arrangements was the outstanding novelty; next to which he never got used to the spectacle of a considerable family, a number of dogs, chickens, and sometimes a donkey, residing happily together in one apartment which could have been covered by a full-sized dining table.

They reached camp at dusk, although they had crossed the river in the morning, having travelled by a circuitous route over high ridges and through gloomy passes, to find that a native cook had prepared dinner and that Hassan es-Sugra, who had gone ahead, was waiting to receive them.

Before attacking the meal, Barry, tired though he was, climbed the side of the wâdi and stood on the edge of a small plateau, looking out to the rosy haze that marked the course of old, distant Nile. The unforgettable dusk of Egypt was falling. Rocks showed like black smudges on a gray canvas, and the sky was passing through an amazing transformation of delicate blue to shell pink, which, by some natural magic, combined to form the violet afterglow which is not the least of this country’s beauties.

From below came a faint clattering of cooking utensils, and a dog was howling somewhere, probably in the village where the workmen were quartered. The great adventure had begun. To-night he was to see for the first time the tomb of Princess Zalithea!

He uttered a deep sigh, which was a sigh of contentment, and climbed down the steep descent again to the camp.

They dined inside one of the tents, Danbazzar deeming it unwise to court attention from any chance travellers upon the ridge above.

Barry stooped and entered the little canvas dwelling which was to be his home for some time to come. It presented a spectacle, on that first night, which was always to remain with him as an odd memory.

Plates of steaming tomato soup (Heinz tinned variety) were set upon the small square table, which even boasted a white cloth. The cook, a big, bearded fellow from the Fayyum, his magnificent teeth revealed in a constant grin, was just placing loaves and a pitcher of water upon the hospitable board.

Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches, and gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin had assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an unspoken retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn farce—a dream from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland, also coatless, sat on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and began to carve it vigorously, looking up as Barry entered.

It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this sun-baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out of place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the table. He wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun helmet. He was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the Scarabæus family which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his soup.

“Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our new quarters?”

“First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair. “If we go on in this style we shan’t starve.”

Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and:

“There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these fellows are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so Danbazzar informs me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than water.”

The soup dispatched:

“Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,” said John Cumberland.

Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the wâdi, suspiciously like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The glistening, smiling face of Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected light. He smiled as he cooked and sang soft Arab love songs.

Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony cane, Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of the chef. At the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a great distance it seemed to come—above and beyond—a rhythmic, silvery jingling. He had just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,” when Hassan turned toward him and raised his hand in warning.

Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly.

Ebon shadows lay in the wâdi; above, on crags and terraces of the mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been justified.

Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry stood, silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel bells! High above on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its way from Thebes to Farshût.…

After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of war, seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan es-Sugra attended.

“Although no precautions have been neglected,” said Danbazzar, “there appears to be suspicion about the object of our journey in certain quarters. I had an interview yesterday with the secretary of Mudîr of Luxor. We have known each other for some years, and he gave me a big dose of advice about the route beyond El Kharga.”

Danbazzar paused, tensing his lips so that his abbreviated beard stuck out truculently, a peculiar mannerism which Barry had noted before. Then:

“The Mudîr’s secretary was most hospitable,” he went on, “and so anxious for our comfort that I’m dead sure he knew I was lying. He knew we had no more intention of visiting the oasis than he has.”

“But how could the truth have leaked out?” John Cumberland asked.

“What about these people in the village,” Barry suggested, “where the men are quartered?”

Hassan es-Sugra extended his palms and softly intruded with a remark.

“They are of the Hawwara,” he explained, “or claim to be. They owe allegiance to their own sheik, and he is my friend. No, it will be some of the workmen, while in Luxor, who have been talking.”

“Then what can we do?” John Cumberland demanded.

“I could thrash two or three of the men,” Hassan suggested gently, “until I found one to speak the truth.”

Barry stared in amazement at the æsthetic face of the speaker, thinking that he jested; but no smile appeared. This was apparently a firm offer.

“No!” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “It would do no good. If this fellow Tawwab suspects anything——”

“Exactly,” said Professor Blackwell uneasily; “that is just what I am wondering. If he suspects anything, what will he do? Inform the Inspector of Antiquities?”

Danbazzar knocked ash from his cigar. The scarab ring upon his finger twinkled in the lamplight. He stared fixed at the Professor; then:

“He is an Egyptian,” he replied. “What would he gain by that?”

“Ah!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “Gain! That’s the answer—bakhshish!”

“Under the present government,” said Danbazzar gravely, “always!”

“Well!” Cumberland shrugged his shoulders. “I came prepared to pay! Is it safe to start?”

“I was about to ask the same question,” declared Professor Blackwell, raising his gaunt and ungainly form from the low camp chair in which he was seated.

“Yes.”

Danbazzar spoke deliberately, and without betraying any of the excitement which the Professor had been unable to conceal, which obviously possessed John Cumberland, and to which Barry was a restless prey. He turned to Hassan es-Sugra.

“Hassan,” he directed, “make sure that all’s clear.”

Hassan saluted deeply and went out of the tent.

“It’s a bit of a scramble,” Danbazzar warned. “Everybody in fibre shoes, and don’t forget your flasks.”

Their preparations were complete when Hassan returned with the news that the road was clear; whereupon, they set out.

The route they followed was merely a native path and not one of the roads ordinarily used. For a goat or a barefooted Egyptian it was navigable enough, but what with leaping over chasms of unknown depth and scrambling up narrow funnels composed of crumbling rock, brittle as a cracker, it was not all that might have been desired by a party of townsmen out for an evening stroll.

At last they came out on the hummock of a hill, and below them, magnificently outlined in shadow, lay the Valley of the Queens. Above towered that strangely shaped mountain once sacred to the goddess Hathor. Breathless, Barry leaned upon a block of stone, listening to a duet in hard breathing contributed by his father and Professor Blackwell. Danbazzar’s cigar glowed in the shadows of a neighbouring rock, and Hassan es-Sugra exhibited no evidence of fatigue.

Awhile they paused there, and then set out again, Danbazzar and Hassan leading, John Cumberland and the Professor following, Barry bringing up the rear. Thus they went, except where broken formation of the ground necessitated single file.

By what sailing marks the pilots traced their course was not apparent. But through the desolation of this land of tombs they passed, the way twisting and turning, their route being sometimes upward and sometimes downward, until at last:

“Here it is!” said Danbazzar.

Barry’s weariness departed; his heart leaped.

They stood before a sheer rock face, its irregular surface pitted with openings. Above a mound of drift, Hassan es-Sugra began to dig with his stick, clearing sand and rubbish away. Barry watched him abstractedly: he was fighting to conquer the reality.

Somewhere here, deep in the heart of this rock, she lay, the princess of long ago! She whose picture, portrayed in the papyrus, was a vivid representation of the girl he had seen on that balcony in faraway New Jersey! Here! somewhere in this ancient mountain where she had lain for thousands of years!

What was the link? What did it mean? Useless! His mind refused to grapple with so monstrous a problem.

“See!” Hassan es-Sugra turned, extending his palms. “The cartouche, sirs! As I found it a year ago!”

A ray from Danbazzar’s electric torch shone on to the rock. All bent forward eagerly.

“Quite! Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Yes, it is the same, unmistakably!”

Deeply carved in the surface, it was there for all to see—the curious sign which translated, meant: “She Who Sleeps but Will Awaken.”

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