The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

3

AGAIN, ELLIOTT almost lost consciousness. Again he closed his eyes, and struggled to fill his lungs with air. His left hand, clutching the walking stick, was now entirely numb.

He could hear the sounds of the guards dragging Ramses down the stairs. Clearly Ramses was fighting. But there were too many of them.

And the woman! She'd disappeared. Then he heard her feet scraping the stone floor again. He peered through the glass beside him to see her retreating to the far end of the hall. Whimpering, her breath still coming in gasps, she vanished through a side door.

All sound had died away below. Apparently Ramses had been removed from the museum. But undoubtedly men would come to search within minutes.

Ruthlessly ignoring the pain in his chest, Elliott hurried down the corridor. He reached the side door in time to see the female just disappearing from view at the foot of a service stair. Quickly he turned back, glancing under the display cases. There lay the vial, still gleaming in the gray light. Going down on one knee, he managed to get hold of it; and closing its cap, he put it in his coat.

Then, fighting a wave of dizziness, he crept down the stairs after the female, his numbed left leg almost tripping him. Halfway down he saw her-bewildered, staggering, one clawlike hand raised as if groping in the dimness.

A door opened suddenly, leaking yellow light into the passage; and a servant woman emerged, her hair and body draped in the Moslem manner by a garment of black wool. She carried a mop in her right hand.

At once she saw the skeletal figure approaching, and she let out a shrill scream, the mop falling from her hands. She fled back into the lighted room.

A low hiss came out of the wounded one and then that awful roar again as she went after the serving maid, skeletal hands out as if to stop the piercing scream.

Elliott moved as fast as he could. The screams stopped before he reached the door of the lighted room. As he entered, he saw the body of the servant woman slumping, dead, to the floor. Her neck had apparently been broken and the flesh torn from her cheek. Her glassy black eyes stared at nothing. And the ragged wounded one stepped over her and moved towards a small mirror over the washbasin on the wall.

A wretched agonized sobbing broke from her when she saw her reflection. Gasping, shuddering, she reached out and touched the glass.

Again, Elliott almost collapsed. The sight of the dead body and the ghastly creature before the glass were more than he could bear. But a ruthless fascination sustained him, as it had all along. He must use his wits now. Damn the pain in his chest and the panic rising like nausea in his throat.

Quickly he closed the door of the room behind him. The noise startled her. She wheeled about, hands poised again for the attack. For a moment, he was paralyzed by the full horror of what he now beheld. The light from the ceiling bulb was merciless. Her eyes bulged from their half-eaten sockets. White rib bones gleamed through a huge wound in her side. Half of her mouth was gone, and a bare stretch of clavicle was drenched in oozing blood.

Dear God, what must her suffering be! Poor, tragic being!

Giving a low growl, she advanced on him. But Elliott spoke quickly in Greek:

"Friend," he said. "I am a friend and offer you shelter." And as his mind went blank on the ancient tongue, he switched to the Latin: "Trust in me. I shall not let you come to harm."

Not taking his eyes off her for a second, he groped for one of several black cloaks hanging on the wall. Yes, what he wanted- one of those shapeless robes worn by Moslem women in public. It was easily large enough to drape her from head to toe.

Fearlessly, he approached her, throwing the cloak over her head and winding it over her shoulders, and at once her hands went up to assist, closing it over her face save for her frightened eyes.

He ushered her out into the corridor, closing the door behind him to conceal the dead body. Noises and shouts were coming from the floor above. He could hear voices coming from a room at the far end of the hall. Spotting the service door to his right, he opened it, and led her out into the alleyway, where the bright sun came down upon them both.

Within moments, he was clear of the building. And they had entered the great endless crowd of Moslems, Arabs and Westerners one saw everywhere in Cairo, thousands of pedestrians moving in all directions, despite the blast of motor-car horns and the progress of donkey-drawn carts.

The woman stiffened when she heard the motor horns. At the sight of a motor car rocking past her, she drew back, crying through clenched teeth. Again, Elliott spoke to her in Latin, reassuring her that he would take care of her, he would find her shelter.

What she understood he could not possibly guess. Then the Latin word for food came from her in a low, tortured voice. "Food and drink," she whispered. She murmured something else, but he did not understand. It sounded like a prayer or a curse.

"Yes," he said in her ear, the Latin words coming easily now that he knew she understood them. "I shall provide all you require. I shall take care of you. Trust in me."

But where could he take her? Only one place came to mind. He had to reach old Cairo. But did he dare put the creature into a motor taxi? Seeing a horse-drawn cab passing, he hailed it. She climbed willingly up to the leather seat. Now, how was he to do it, when he could scarce breathe and his left leg was almost useless? He planted his right foot firmly on the step and swung himself up with his right arm. And then, near to collapse as ever he'd been in his life, he slumped down beside the hunched figure and told the driver where he must go with his last breath.

The cab shot forward, the driver shouting at the pedestrians and cracking his whip. The poor creature beside him cried brokenheartedly, drawing the veil completely over her face.

He embraced her; he ignored the cold hard bone he could feel through the thin black cloth. He held tight to her and, gradually catching his breath, told her again in Latin that he would care for her, that he was her friend.

As the cab sped out of the British district, he tried to think. But shocked and in pain, he could achieve no rational explanation for himself for what he'd witnessed or what he'd done. He only knew on some inchoate level that he'd seen a miracle and a murder; and that the former meant infinitely more to him than the latter; and he was set now upon an irrevocable course.

* * *

Julie was only half-awake. Surely she was misunderstanding the British official who stood in the door.

"Arrested? For breaking into the museum? I don't believe it."

"Miss Stratford, he's been wounded, badly. There seems to be some confusion."

"What confusion?"

* * *

The doctor was furious. If the man was badly wounded, he should be in hospital, not in the back of the jail.

"Make way," he shouted to the uniformed men in front of him. "What in God's name is this, a firing squad?"

No less than twenty rifles were pointed at the tall blue-eyed man standing against the wall. Dried blood covered the man's shirt. The shoulder had been blown away from his coat. There was dried blood there as well. Panic-stricken, he stared at the doctor.

"Come no closer!" he cried. "You will not examine me. You will not touch me with your medical instruments. I am unharmed and I want to leave this place."

"Five bullets," whispered the officer in the doctor's ear. "I saw the wounds, I tell you. He can't possibly have withstood such a-"

" Let me have a look at you! *' The doctor attempted to move in.

Instantly the man's fist shot towards him, knocking the black bag to the ceiling. One of the rifles went off as the man charged the policemen, slamming several of them backwards, against the wall. The doctor fell to his knees. His glasses fell on the ground before him. He felt the heel of a boot come down on his hand as the soldiers stampeded into the hall.

Again the rifle cracked. Shouts and curses in Egyptian. Where were his glasses! He must find his glasses.

Suddenly someone was helping him to his feet. The glasses were in his hand and quickly he put them on.

A civilized English face came into focus.

"Arc you all right?"

"What the devil's happened? Where is he? Did they shoot him again?''

"The man's as strong as a bull. He broke the back door out, bars and all. He's escaped."

* * *

Thank God, Alex was with her. No one could find Elliott. Samir had gone on to the police station to find out what he could. As she and Alex were ushered into the office, she saw with relief that it was the governor's assistant. Miles Winthrop, and not the governor himself. Miles had gone to school with Alex. Julie had known him since he was a little boy.

"Miles, this is a misunderstanding," Alex said. "It has to be."

"Miles," she said. "Do you think you can get him released?"

"Julie, the situation is more complicated than we realized. First off, the Egyptians aren't too fond of those who break into their world-famous museum. But now there's a theft and a murder to be considered as well."

"What are you talking about!" Julie whispered.

"Miles, Ramsey couldn't murder anybody," Alex said. "That's patently absurd."

"I hope you're right, Alex. But there's a maid dead in the museum with her neck broken. And a mummy's been stolen from a display case on the second floor. And your friend has escaped the jail. Now, tell me, both of you. How well do you really know this man?"

* * *

Running at full sprint across the roof, he took the alleyway before him in one leap. Within seconds, he covered another roof, and dropped down to another, and then cut across another narrow street.

Only then did he look back. His pursuers had lost him. He could hear the faint, very distant crack of the rifle. Perhaps they were shooting at each other. He did not care.

He dropped down into the street and ran. Within a short distance, the street became an alley. The houses hemming him in had high windows covered over with wooden screens. He saw no more British shops or English signs. Only Egyptians passed him, and for the most part they were old women in pairs, with veils over their faces and their hair. They averted their eyes at once from his bloodstained shirt and torn clothes.

Finally he stepped into a doorway and rested, and then slowly slipped his hand into his coat. The wound was healed on the outside, though he could still feel the throbbing inside. He felt the broad strip of the moneybelt. The vials were intact.

The cursed vials! Would that he had never taken the elixir from its hiding place in London! Or that he had sealed the powder into a clay vessel and sunk the vessel into the sea!

What would the soldiers have done with the liquid if they had got their hands on it? He could not bear to dwell on how close he had come to that possibility.

But the thing now was to return to the museum! He must find her! And to dwell on what had befallen her in the interim was more than he could bear.

Never in all his existence had he experienced the regret which he was feeling now. But it was done! He had succumbed to the temptation. He had awakened the half-rotted body lying in that case.

And he must find the results of his folly. He must learn whether a spark of intellect existed inside it!

Ah, but whom was he deceiving! She had called his name!

He turned and hurried down the alley. A disguise, that's what he needed. And he had no time to purchase it. He must take it where he could. Laundry, he had seen ropes of laundry. He rushed on, until he saw another such rope sagging across a narrow passageway to his left.

Bedouin garments-the long-sleeved robe and the headdress. He tore these down at once. Discarding his jacket, he put them on, and then cut a bit of the rope itself to tie around his head.

Now he looked like an Arab except for the blue eyes. But then he knew where he might get a pair of dark glasses. He'd seen them in the bazaar. And that was on the way back to the museum. He headed out at a dead run.

* * *

Henry had been almost dead drunk since he'd come from Shepheard's the day before. The brief talk with Elliott had had a peculiar effect on him somehow; it had sapped his nerve.

He tried to remind himself that he loathed Elliott Savarell and that he himself was pressing on to America, where he'd never see Elliott or anyone like him again.

Yet the meeting haunted him. Every time he sobered up just a little he saw Elliott again, staring at him with absolute contempt. He heard the cold hatred in Elliott's voice.

A lot of nerve Elliott had, turning on him like this. Years ago, after a brief and stupid affair, Henry had had it in his power to destroy Elliott, but he had not done so for no other reason than it would have been a cruel thing to do. He had always presumed that Elliott was grateful for that; that Elliott's patience and politeness signaled that gratitude. For Elliott had been unfailingly courteous to him over the years.

Not so yesterday. And the awful thing about it was that the hatred EHiott evinced had been a mirror image of the hatred Henry felt for everyone he knew. It had soured Henry and embittered him.

And it had also frightened him.

Have to get away from them, all of them, he reasoned. They do nothing but criticize me and misjudge me when they are not worth a tinker's damn themselves.

When they had left Cairo, he would clean himself up, stop drinking, go back to Shepheard's and sleep in peace for a few days. Then he'd strike the bargain with his father and head out to America with the considerable little fortune he'd saved.

But for the moment, he had no intention of curtailing the parry. There would be no card game today; he would take it easy, and enjoy the Scotch without distraction; merely dozing in his rattan chair, and eating the food Malenka prepared for him if and when he chose.

Malenka herself had become a bit of a nag. She had just cooked an English breakfast for him and wanted him to come to the table. He had slapped her with the back of his hand, and told her to leave him alone.

Nevertheless she went on with her preparations. He could hear the kettle whistling. She had set china out on the small rattan table in the courtyard.

Well, to hell with her. He had three bottles of Scotch, which was plenty. Maybe he would lock her out later if there was a chance. He loved the idea of being all alone here. Of drinking and smoking and dreaming. And maybe listening to the gramophone. He was even getting used to that damned parrot.

As he dozed off now, the parrot was screeching and clucking and walking back and forth, upside down, on the ceiling of its cage. African grays liked to do things like that. In truth the thing looked like a giant bug to him. Maybe he should kill it when Malenka wasn't here.

He felt himself drifting, dozing, on the edge of dream. He took one more sip of Scotch, so smooth, and let his head roll to the side. Julie's house; the library; that thing at his shoulder; the scream curled at the back of his throat.

"God!" He shot forward out of the chair, and the glass fell out of his hands. If only that dream would stop. . . .

* * *

Elliott had to stop to catch his breath. The two bulbous eyes stared at him over the black serge. It seemed they tried to squint in the sunlight, but the half-eaten lids would not fully close. The woman's hand pulled the veil tighter as if she wanted to hide herself from his gaze.

Whispering softly in Latin, he begged for patience. The carriage had been unable to get very close to the house to which they were going. It was only a few paces more.

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. But wait a moment. The hand. The hand which was holding the black serge over her mouth. He looked at it again. It was changing in the burning sun. The wound exposing the knucklebone had almost closed.

He stared at it for a moment; then he looked at her eyes again. Yes, the eyelids had filled in somewhat and long beautiful black lashes were now curving upwards, hiding the leprous like ruin of the flesh.

He put his arm about her again: at once she cleaved to him, a soft and trembling thing. A soft sigh escaped her.

He was aware suddenly of a perfume rising from her, a rich, sweet and altogether lovely perfume. There was the smell of dust, of mud, actually, of the deep river silt-but that was very faint. The perfume was strong and musky. He could feel her warmth coming through the black serge.

Dear God, what is this potion! What is it capable of!

"There, there, my dear," he said in English. "We're very close. That door at the end."

He felt her arm slip around him. With a powerful grip she lifted him slightly, taking the pressure off his numb left foot. The pain in his left hip slackened. He gave a little laugh of relief. In fact, he almost broke into outright laughter. But he didn't. He simply moved on, allowing her to assist him, until he reached the door.

There he rested for a moment, and then he pounded with his right fist.

He could not have gone another step.

There was a long moment in which he heard nothing. He pounded again, and again.

Then came the sound of the bolt sliding, and Henry appeared, squinting, his face unshaven, dressed only in a green silk robe.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Let me in." He pushed the door back and brought the woman with him into the room. Desperately she crowded against him, hiding her face.

Dimly, he saw that the place was luxurious-carpets, furniture, decanters gleaming on a marble sideboard. Through the archway, a dark-skinned beauty in a satin dancing costume-obviously Malenka-had just set down a tray of steaming food. Small orange trees crowded against the whitewashed garden wall.

"Who is this woman!" Henry demanded.

Holding tight to her still, Elliott struggled to the chair. But he could see that Henry was staring at the woman's feet. He'd seen the bare bones showing in the instep. A look of disgust passed over Henry; of puzzlement.

"Who is she! Why did you bring her here!"

Then convulsively, Henry moved back, slamming into the pillar that divided the archway to the courtyard, his head thudding dangerously against the stone. "What's wrong with her!" he gasped. "Patience, I'll tell you everything," Elliott whispered. The pain in his chest was so bad now that he could hardly form the words. Easing down in the rattan chair, he felt the woman's grip loosen. He heard her make a faint sound. He looked up, and realized she had seen the cupboard across the room, the glass bottles gleaming in the light from the courtyard.

She went towards the liquid, groaning. The black serge garment fell from her head and then from her shoulders, fully revealing the bones of her ribs gleaming through the gaping holes in her back, and the remnants of cloth that barely concealed her nakedness.

"For the love of God, don't panic!" Elliott shouted.

But it was too late. Henry's face went white, his mouth twisted and shuddering. Behind him, in the courtyard, Malenka let out a full-throated scream.

The wounded creature dropped the bottle with a great piteous moan.

Henry's hand rose from his pocket, sun glinting on the barrel of a small silver gun.

"No, Henry!" Elliott cried. He tried to rise, but he couldn't. The shot exploded with the same nerve-shattering volume of the guns in the museum. A parrot screeched in its cage.

The wounded woman cried out as she took the bullet in her chest, staggering backwards, and then let out a great bellow as she ran at Henry.

The sounds coming from Henry were scarcely human. All reason had left him. He backed into the courtyard, firing the gun again and again. Crying in agony, the woman closed on him, knocking the gun out of his hand and taking him by the throat. In an ugly waltz they struggled, Henry clawing at her desperately, her own bony fingers holding fast to his neck. The wicker table went over, china shattering on the tiles. Into the orange trees they stumbled, tiny leaves pouring down in a shower.

In terror Malenka crouched against the wall.

"Elliott, help me!" Henry screamed. He was being bent over backwards, knees buckling and hands flailing, catching stupidly in the creature's hair.

Elliott managed somehow to reach the edge of the archway. But only in time to hear the bones snap. He winced as he saw Henry's body go limp and tumble softly, in a heap of green silk, on the ground.

The creature staggered backwards, whimpering, and then sobbing, her mouth making a grimace again, as it had in the museum, teeth bared. The ragged cloth covering her had been torn from one shoulder; her dark pink nipples showed through the sheer linen. Great gouts of blood hung in the wrappings still clinging to her torso, strips of fabric falling from her thighs with each step. Her eyes, bloodshot and running with tears, stared at the dead body and then at the spilt food, the hot tea steaming in the sun.

Slowly she went down on her knees. She grabbed up the muffins and stuffed them into her mouth. On all fours she lapped the spilt tea. She scraped up the jam with her fingers and sucked them frantically. She gnawed on the bacon and then swallowed the rasher whole.

In utter silence, Elliott watched her. He was vaguely conscious of Malenka running silently towards him, and then hovering behind him. Deliberately, he took one short breath after another, listening at the same time to the hammer trip of his heart.

The creature devoured the butter; the eggs she crushed and scraped with her teeth from the shells.

Finally there was no more food. Yet she remained there, on her knees. She was staring at her outstretched hands.

The sun beat down on the little courtyard. It gleamed on her dark hair.

In a daze, Elliott continued to watch. He could not absorb what he was seeing or judge it. The continuing shock of all he'd witnessed was too great.

Suddenly the creature turned and lay down on the paved ground. She stretched out full length, crying as if into a soft pillow, her hand scratching at the hard-baked tiles. Then she rolled over on her back into the full sunlight, free of the soft dancing green shadows from the small trees.

For a moment she stared up into the burning sky, and then her eyes appeared to roll up in her head. Only a half-moon of pale iris showed.

"Ramses," she whispered. Her bosom moved faintly with her breathing. But otherwise she lay still.

The Earl turned and reached for Malenka. Leaning heavily on her, he struggled back towards the chair. He could feel the dark-skinned woman trembling. He settled down silently on the tapestried cushions, and rested his head against the high rounded chair back of prickly rattan. This is all a nightmare, he thought. But it was not a nightmare. He had seen this creature raised from the dead. He had seen her kill Henry. What in God's name was he to do?

Malenka remained at his elbow, then went down slowly on her knees. Her eyes were wide- and empty, her mouth agape. She stared towards the garden.

Flies circled over Henry's face. They swooped down on the remnants of the overturned meal.

"There, there, nothing will harm you," Elliott whispered. The burning in his chest subsided very slowly. He felt a dull warmth in his left hand. "She won't hurt you. I promise you." He moistened his dry lips with his tongue, then somehow managed to go on. "She is ill; and I must take care of her. She will not harm you, you understand."

The Egyptian woman clutched at his wrist, her forehead against the arm of the chair. After a long moment, she spoke.

"No police," she pleaded in a barely audible voice. "No English take my house."

"No," Elliott murmured. "No police. We don't want the police."

He wanted to pat her head, but he could not bring himself to move. He stared dully out into the sunlight, at the prone creature, her glossy black hair spread out in the sunlight; and at the dead man.

"I take care of . . ." the woman whispered. "I take my English away. No police come.''

Elliott didn't understand her. What was she saying? Then slowly it dawned on him.

"You can do this?" he said under his breath.

"Yes, I do this. Friends come. Take English away."

"Yes, all right then." He sighed and the pain in his chest intensified. Tentatively he pushed his right hand into his pocket and brought out his money clip. Barely able to move his left fingers, he took out two ten-pound notes.

"For you," he said. He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort. He felt the money taken from his hand. "But you must be careful. You must tell no one what you saw."

"I tell no one. I take care of ... This is my house. My brother give."

"Yes, I understand. I shall be here only a little while. That I promise you. I shall take the woman with me. But for now, you will be patient, and there'll be more money, much more." Once again he looked at the money clip. He peeled the notes off without counting and forced them into her hand.

Then he lay back again, and closed his eyes. He heard her pad softly across the carpet. Then her hand touched him again.

When he looked up he saw her draped in black, and she held another folded black robe in her hand.

"You cover," she whispered. And with her eyes, she gestured to the courtyard.

"I cover," he whispered. And closed his eyes again. "You cover!" he heard her say desperately. And again he said that he would.

With great relief he heard her go out, and shut the door to the street.

* * *

In the long flowing Bedouin robes, Ramses walked through the museum, among the milling tourists, peering ahead through the dark glasses at the empty space at the end of the corridor where the display case had stood. No sign that it had ever been there! No broken glass, no splintered wood. And the vial he had dropped. Gone.

But where could she be! What happened to her! In anguish, he thought of the soldiers who'd surrounded him. Had she fallen into their hands?

He walked on, turning the corner, eyes moving over the statues and the sarcophagi. If he had known misery like this ever in all these centuries, he could not remember it now. He had no right to be walking here with men and women, to be breathing the same air.

He could not think where to go or what to do. If he did not discover something soon, he would go completely mad.

* * *

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, maybe less. Cover her, yes. No, get her out of the garden before the men come. She lay in the sun, stuporous, now and then murmuring in her sleep.

Gripping his walking stick, he rose to his feet. There was feeling in his left leg again, and that meant there was pain.

He went into the bedroom. A high old-fashioned Victorian bed stood against the far right wail, its white mosquito netting catching the flood of sunlight from the open blinds of the window.

A dressing table stood just to the left of the window. And an armoire stood farther away in the left corner, its mirrored doors open, revealing a row of wool jackets and coats.

A small portable gramophone with a horn stood on the dressing table. Beside it were a set of gramophone records in a cardboard case. "Learn English," said the bold lettering. There was another dance hall record. An ashtray. Several magazines and a half-full bottle of Scotch.

He could see a proper bathroom through a far door on the right side of the bed. Copper tub there; towels.

He went the other direction, through a door into another chamber which formed the north wall of the courtyard, with all its blinds shut. Here the dark beauty kept her tawdry dancing costumes and junk jewelry. But one cabinet was bursting with frilly Western dresses as well. There were Western shoes, and frilly umbrellas and a couple of impossible wide-brimmed hats.

But what good were these clothes when the wounded thing needed to be hidden from prying eyes? He found the usual Moslem robes folded neatly on a bottom shelf. So he could give her fresh covering-that is, if Malenka would allow him to buy these clothes.

He paused in the doorway to catch his breath. He stared at the regal bed in the sunlight, the netting flowing down from a circular tester, much like a crown above. The moment seemed trancelike, elastic. Images of Henry's death flashed before his eyes. Yet he felt nothing. Nothing-except perhaps for a cold horror that took away the very will to live.

Will to live. He had the vial in his pocket. He had a few drops of the precious fluid!

That, too, did not affect him; did not dispel his languor. The maid dead in the museum; Henry dead in the courtyard. The thing lying out there in the sun!

He could not reason. Why bother to try? He had to reach Ramses, of that much he was certain. But where was Ramses? What had the bullets done to him? Was he being held by the men who had dragged him away?

But first, the woman, he had to bring her in and hide her so that Henry's body could be taken away.

She might well attack the men who came to get Henry. And one glimpse of her might do them even more harm.

Limping out to the courtyard, he tried to clear his head. He and Ramses were not enemies. They were confederates now. And perhaps . . . But then he had no spirit for such dreams and ambitions anymore--only what must be done now.

He took a few cautious steps towards the woman asleep on the tiled patio floor.

The midday sun was burning hot, and suddenly he feared for her because of it. He shaded his eyes as he looked at her: for surely he could not be seeing what he thought he saw.

She moaned uneasily; she was suffering-but a woman of great and exceptional beauty lay there!

A large patch of white bone gleamed through her raven hair, true, and a small bit of bare cartilage showed in her jaw. Indeed, her right hand still had two fingers which were bones only, blood trickling from the gristle in the joints. And the wound in her chest was still there, gaping, revealing a stretch of white rib, overlaid with a thin membrane full of tiny red veins.

But the face had assumed its full human contour! High color bloomed in the beautifully molded cheeks. The mouth was exquisitely shaped and ruddy. And the flesh had over all a lovely even olive tone.

Her nipples were a dark rose color, her breasts plump and firm.

What was happening? Did the elixir take time to work?

Timidly he drew closer. The heat pounded upon him. His head began to swim. Struggling once again not to lose consciousness, he groped for the pillar behind him and steadied himself, eyes still fixed on the woman who now opened her pale hazel eyes.

She stirred, lifting her right hand and staring at it again. Surely she felt what was happening to her. In fact, it seemed the wounds hurt her. Gasping, she touched the bleeding edge of open flesh on her hand.

But if she understood that she was actually healing, she gave no sign. She let her arm drop limply and once again she closed her eyes. She cried again, softly.

"Ramses," she said as if in half sleep.

"Come with me, "Elliott spoke to her softly in Latin. "Come inside, to a proper bed."

Dully she looked at him.

"The warm sun is there too," he said. And no sooner had he said these words than he realized. It was the sun that was healing her! He had seen it working on her hand as they came through the streets. It was the only part exposed save for her eyes, and they too had been healing.

And it had been the sun that waked Ramses. That was the meaning of all the strange language on the coffin, that the sun must not be allowed into the tomb.

But there was no time to ponder it or question it. She had sat up; the rags had fallen away from her naked breasts completely, and her face, looking up at him, was beautifully angular, cheeks softly shadowed, eyes full of cold light.

She gave him her hand, then saw the bony fingers and drew it back with a hiss.

"No, trust in me," he said in Latin. He helped her to her feet.

He led her through the little house and into the bedroom. She studied objects around her. With her foot, she examined the soft Persian carpet. She stared at the little gramophone. What did the black disk look like to her?

He tried to steer her towards the bed, but she would not move. She had seen the newspaper lying on the dressing table; and now she snatched it up and stared at the advertisement for the opera-at the quaintly Egyptian woman and her warrior lover, and the sketch of the three pyramids behind them and the fanlike Egyptian palms.

She gave a little agitated moan as she studied this. Then her finger moved over the columns of English, and she looked up at Elliott, her eyes large and glossy and slightly mad.

"My language," he said to her in Latin. "English. This advertises a drama with music. It is called an opera."

"Speak in English," she said to him in Latin. Her voice was sharp yet lovely. "I tell you, speak."

There was a sound at the door. He took her arm and moved her to one side, out of sight. "Strangers," he said in English and then immediately in Latin. He went on in this vein, alternating languages, translating for her. "Lie down and rest, and I shall bring you food."

She cocked her head, listening to the noises from the other room. Then her body moved with a violent spasm and she put her hand to the wound in her chest. Yes, they hurt her, these awful oozing ulcers, for that's what they looked like. But there was something else wrong with her, accounting for her sudden jerky movements, and the way every sound startled her.

Quickly he led her to the bed, and, shoving back the netting, he urged her to He back on the lace pillows. A great look of relief came over her as she did so. She shivered violently again, fingers dancing now over her eyes, as she turned instinctively towards the sun. Surely he should cover her; only a few rags now clung to her, thin as paper, but then she needed the sun.

He opened the blinds opposite, letting the full heat come in.

Then he hurried to close the door to the sitting room, and he peered out the window that opened onto the yard.

Malenka was just opening the garden gate. Two men had come in with a rolled-up carpet. They unrolled it on the pavement, lifted the body of Henry, dumped it down on the carpet and rolled it up again.

The sight of the heavy flopping limbs sickened Elliott. He swallowed, and waited out the sudden increased pressure in his chest.

Then he heard a soft weeping coming from the bed. He went back to the woman and looked down at her. He could not tell if the healing was continuing. And then he thought of the vial in his coat.

For a moment he hesitated. Who would not? But there were only a few droplets. And he could not bear the sight of her pain.

The deaths she'd caused; they had been almost blunders. And how impossible to measure her confusion and torments.

She looked up at him, squinting as though the brightness hurt her. And softly in Latin, she asked his name.

For a moment he couldn't respond. Her simple tone had evinced a natural intelligence. And it was intelligence now that he beheld in her eyes.

That is, she seemed no longer mad or disoriented. Only a woman suffering.

"Forgive me," he said in Latin. "Elliott, Lord Rutherford. In my land, I am a lord."

Shrewdly she studied him. She sat up, and reaching for the folded comforter at the foot of the bed, she brought it up to cover her to the waist. The sunlight sparkled on her black hair, and once again he saw the tendrils dancing about her face.

Her black eyebrows were beautifully drawn, high and just wide enough apart. Her hazel eyes were magnificent.

"May I ask your name?" he said in Latin.

A bitter smile came over her. "Cleopatra," she said. "In my land, I am a Queen."

The silence shimmered. A soft heat washed through him, utterly unlike the pain of other shocks. He stared into her eyes, unable to answer. And then a great exhilaration seized him, obliterating every fear and regret of his soul.

"Cleopatra," he whispered, awestruck, respectful.

In Latin she said,' 'Speak to me in English, Lord Rutherford. Speak the tongue you spoke to the slave girl. Speak the tongue written there in the book. Bring me food and drink, for I am ravenous."

"Yes," he said in English, nodding to her. He repeated the assent in Latin. "Food and drink."

"And you must tell me-" she started, but then stopped. The pain in her side hurt her, and then frantically she touched the wound on her head. "Tell me-" she tried again, then looked at him in pure confusion. She was obviously struggling to remember; then panic seized her, and clamping her hands to her head, she closed her eyes and started to weep.

"Here, wait, I have the medicine," he whispered. He eased himself down slowly on the side of the bed. He drew the vial out of his coat. A half inch of fluid remained in it, sparkling unnaturally in the sun.

She studied the vial suspiciously. She watched him open it. He raised it, gendy touching her hair with his left hand; but she stopped him. She pointed to her eyelids and he saw that there were still small places there where the skin appeared eaten away. She took the vial from him, poured a drop or two onto her fingers and smoothed this on her lids.

Elliott narrowed his eyes as he watched the action of the chemical. He could almost hear it, a faint rustling, crackling sound.

Now, desperately, she took the whole vial and poured the fluid over the gaping hole in her chest. She smeared it with her left fingers, whimpering softly, and then lay back, gasping faintly, head tossing on the pillows, then still.

Several minutes passed. He was fascinated by what he saw. But the healing went only so far, then stopped. Her lids, they were now entirely normal, and indeed her lashes were a dark unbroken fringe. But the wound in her side was as evil as ever.

It was only just penetrating to him that she was Cleopatra, that Ramses had stumbled upon the body of his lost love. It was only just coming clear to him why Ramses had done what he had done. Dully he wondered what it meant to have such power. He had dreamed of immortality, but not the power to convey it. And this was the power not only to grant immortality, but to triumph over death.

But the implications . . . they staggered him. This creature, what was going on in her mind? Indeed, where had her mind as such come from? God, he had to reach Ramsey!

"I'll get more of the medicine," he said in English, translating it immediately into Latin. "I'll bring it here to you, but you must rest now. You must lie here in die sun." He pointed to the window. Using both languages, he explained that the sun was making the medicine work.

Drowsily she looked at him. She repeated his English phrases, mimicking his accent perfectly. But her eyes had a glazed and utterly mad look now. She murmured something in Latin about not being able to remember and then she began to weep again.

He could not bear the sight of it. But what more could he do? As quickly as he could, he went into the other room and brought back a bottle of liqueur for her, a thick spicy brandy, and at once she took it from him and drank it down.

Her eyes went dim for a moment. And then she moaned aloud in pure distress again.

The gramophone. Ramsey loved music. Ramsey was spellbound by it. Elliott went to the little machine, and examined the few records beside it in a pile. Lots of the English-language foolishness. Ah, here was what he wanted: A'ida. Caruso singing Radames.

He wound the box, and set the needle on the record. At the first thin sound of the orchestra, she sat up in the bed; she stared in horror. But he went to her and touched her shoulder gently.

"Opera, Aida," he said. He groped for words in Latin to explain it was a music box; it worked by parts fitted together. "The song was from a man to his Egyptian love."

She climbed out of the bed and stumbled past him. She was now almost entirely naked, and her form was quite beautiful, her hips narrow and her legs beautifully proportioned. He tried not to stare at her; not to stare at her breasts. Approaching slowly, he lifted the gramophone needle. She screamed at him. A volley of curses broke from her in Latin. "Make the music go on."

"Yes, but I want to show you how," he told her. He cranked the handle of the machine again. He set the needle on the record again. Only then did the utter savagery go out of her expression. She began to moan in time with the music, and then she put her hands on her head, and shut her eyes very tight.

She began to dance, rocking frantically from side to side. It terrified him to watch her, but he knew he'd seen this very kind of dancing before. He had seen it among severely damaged children-an atavistic response to the rhythm and sound.

She didn't notice as he slipped away to bring her food.

* * *

Ramses bought the newspaper from the British newsstand and walked on, slowly, through the crowded bazaar.

MURDER IN THE MUSEUM MUMMY STOLEN; MAID KILLED

Beneath the headline was the column heading:

MYSTERIOUS EGYPTIAN SOUGHT IN GRISLY DEATH

He scanned the details, then crumpled up the newspaper and threw it away. He walked on with his head bowed, arms folded under the Arab robe. Had she slain this serving woman? And why had she done it? 'And how had she managed to escape?

Of course the officials might be lying, but that seemed unlikely. Not enough time had elapsed for such cleverness. And she had had the opportunity, for die guards had been busy taking him away.

He tried to see again what he had seen in that shadowy hallway-the horrid monstrosity which he had resurrected from the case. He saw the thing trudging towards him; he heard the hoarse, almost gurgling voice. He saw the attitude of suffering stamped on the half-eaten-away face!

What was he to do? This morning for the first time since he had been a mortal man, he had thought of his gods. In the museum as he had stood over her remains, ancient chants had come back to him; ancient words he'd spoken before the populace and in the darkened temple surrounded by priests.

And now in the hot teeming street, he found himself whispering under his breath old prayers again.

Julie sat on the small white chintz sofa in the sitting room of her cluttered hotel suite. She was glad that Alex was holding her hand. Samir stood quietly beside the only empty chair. Two British officials sat opposite. Miles Winthrop, standing near the door, hands clasped behind his back, looked miserable. The elder of the two officials, a man named Peterson, held a telegram in his hand.

"But you see, Miss Stratford," he said with a condescending smile, "with a death in London and now a death here in Cairo ..."

"How do you know they are connected?" Samir asked. "This man in London. You say he was a maker of illegal loans!"

"Ah, Tommy Sharpies, yes, that was his profession."

"Well, what would Mr. Ramsey have to do with him?" Julie asked. How remarkable that I sound so calm, she thought, when I am going mad inside.

"Miss Stratford, the Cleopatra coin found in the dead man's pocket connects these murders. Surely it came from your collection. It is identical with the five coins cataloged."

"But it is not one of the five coins. You've told me that."

"Yes, but you see, we found several others, here at Shep-heard's."

"I don't follow you."

"In Mr. Ramsey's room."

Silence. Samir cleared his throat. "You searched his room? "

It was Miles who answered:

"Julie, I know this is a very dear friend of yours, and the whole situation is painful. But you see, these killings-they're extraordinarily vicious. And you must tell us anything that can help us to apprehend this man."

"He did not kill anyone in London!"

Miles went on as if he hadn't heard this outburst, with maddening civility.

"Now, the Earl, we must talk to the Earl also, and at the moment we can't find him." He looked to Alex.

"I don't know where my father is," Alex said helplessly.

"And Henry Stratford, where can we find him?"

* * *

The two Egyptians hurried through the narrow streets of old Cairo, with the blanket over their shoulders, the bulging body quite a weight in the noon heat.

But it was well worth the sweat and time taken, for the body would bring them plenty. As the winter months approached, tourists would descend in droves upon Egypt. They had found a good and handsome corpse just in time.

Finally they reached Zaki's house, or "the factory," as it was known to them in their own tongue. Through the courtyard gate they entered, hurrying with their trophy into the first of a series of dimly lighted rooms. They had taken no notice of the mummies propped against the stone wall as they passed, or of the numerous dark, leathery bodies on tables in the room.

Only the stench of the chemicals bothered them. And they waited impatiently for Zaki to come.

"Good body," said one of the men to the workman who stirred a giant pot of bitumen in the center of the room. A great bed of coals beneath it kept it bubbling, and it was from this pot that the foul smell came.

"Good bones?" asked the man.

"Ah, yes, beautiful English bones."

The disguise was a good one. Thousands of such Bedouins roamed Cairo. He might as well have been invisible, that is, when he took off the sunglasses which did occasionally bring stares.

He pocketed them now beneath the striped robe as he entered the rear yard of Shepheard's Hotel. The brown-skinned Egyptian boys, lathering a motor car, did not even look up from their labor as he passed.

Moving along the wall, behind the fruit trees, he approached a small nondescript door. An uncarpeted rear stairs lay within. Mops, brooms, a wash pail in the alcove.

He took the broom and made his way slowly up the stairs. He dreaded the inevitable moment when Julie would ask what he had done.

* * *

She sat on the side of the bed, eating from the tray he'd put before her on the small wicker table from the yard. She wore a thin chemise now, the only undergarment he'd found in Malenka's closet. He had helped her put it on.

Malenka had prepared the food for him-fruit, bread, cheese and wine-but she would not come near the room.

The creature's appetite was fierce and she ate almost savagely. The bottles of wine she'd drunk as if they were water. And though she had remained in the sun steadily, no more healing had taken place, of that he was fairly sure.

As for Malenka, she remained shivering in the front room. How long he could control her, Elliott was unsure.

He slipped away now and went in search of her. He found her crouched, her arms folded, against the far wall.

"Don't be frightened, dear," he said to her.

"My poor English," she said in a whisper.

"I know, my dear, I know." But that's just it, he didn't know. He sat down in the peacock chair again, and took out a few more bills. He gestured to her to come and take them. But she merely stared at him, dull-eyed, shivering, and then turned her head to the wall.

"My poor English,'' she said, "is in the boiling vat by now.''

Had he heard her properly?

"What vat?" he asked her. "What are you saying?"

"They make a great Pharaoh of my English. My beautiful English. They put him in the bitumen; they make a mummy of him for tourists to buy."

He was too shocked to answer her. He looked away, unable to form the simplest words.

"My beautiful English, they wrap him in linen; they make him a King."

He wanted to say, Stop, he could hear no more. But he only sat there in silence until suddenly the sound of the gramophone startled him-the sound of a pinched voice speaking English grinding out from the other room. The English records. She had found them. He trusted that they would content her, that they would give him this little time to rest.

But there came a great shattering crash. The mirror. She had broken it.

He rose and hurried towards her; she stood rocking back and forth on the carpet, the broken glass all over the dressing table, all over the floor around her, the gramophone droning on.

"Regina, " he said. "Bella Regina Cleopatra. "

"Lord Rutherford," she cried. "What has happened to me! What is this place?'' A long string of words in a strange tongue she spoke rapidly, and then the words gave out altogether into hoarse hysterical cries breaking one after another, and finally forming one great roaring sob.

* * *

Zaki inspected the operation. He watched them sink the naked body of the Englishman deep into the thick, viscous green fluid. On occasion, he would embalm these bodies; he would carry the replication of the original process to the extreme. But that was no longer necessary. The English weren't so keen anymore to unwrapping them at their parties in London. It was only necessary to have them thoroughly soaked in bitumen, and then the wrappings could be applied.

He approached the vat; he studied the face of the Englishman floating below the surface. Good bones, that was true. That's what the tourists like-to see a real face beneath the linen. And this one would look very good indeed.

* * *

A soft knock on her door.

"I don't want to see anyone," Julie said. She sat on the couch in the sitting room of her suite, beside Samir, who had been holding her as she cried.

She could not understand what had happened. There was no doubt Ramses had been in the museum, that he had been badly wounded, and that he had escaped. But the murder of the maid, she could not believe he would do such a thing.

"The theft of the mummy, this I understand," she had told Samir only moments before. "He knew that woman; he knew who she was. He could not bear to see the body desecrated any longer, and so he sought to remove her."

"But none of the pieces fit together," Samir said. "If he was taken prisoner, who then removed the mummy?" He paused as Rita answered the door.

Julie turned, caught a glimpse of a tall Arab standing there, in full flowing robes. She was about to turn away when she saw a flash of blue eyes.

It was Ramses. He pushed his way past Rita and shut the door. At once she rushed into his arms.

She did not know what her doubts had been, or her fears. She held him, burying her face in his neck. She felt his lips graze her forehead, and then his embrace tightened. He kissed her hard, yet tenderly, on the mouth.

She heard Samir's urgent whisper. "Sire, you are in danger. They are searching for you everywhere."

But she couldn't release him. In the graceful robes, he looked more than ever otherworldly. The pure precious love she felt for him was sharpened to the point of pain.

"Do you know what's happened?" she whispered. "A woman in the museum was murdered and they are accusing you of the crime."

"I know, my dearest," he said softly. "The death is on my head. And worse horrors than that."

She stared at him, trying to accept his words. Then the tears rose once again, and she covered her face with her hands.

* * *

She sat on the bed, staring stupidly at him. Did she understand when he told her the dress was a very fine dress? She mimicked the words of the gramophone in perfect English. "I should like a little sugar in my coffee. I should like a bit of lemon in my tea." Then she fell silent again.

She let him button the pearl buttons; she stared down in amazement as he tied the sash of the pink skirt. She gave an evil little laugh and lifted her leg against the heavy gores of the skirt.

"Pretty, pretty," she said. He had taught her that much hi English. "Pretty dress."

She brushed past him suddenly and picked up a magazine from the dressing table and looked at the pictures of the women. Then in Latin, she asked again, What is this place?

"Egypt," he told her. He had told her over and over. Then would come the blank look, then the look of pain.

Timidly he lifted the brush, and brought it down through her hair. Lovely, fine hair. Hair so black there were feint glints of blue in it. She sighed, lifted her shoulders; she loved him brushing it. A low laugh came from her lips.

"Very good, Lord Rutherford," she said in English. She arched her back and moved her limbs languidly, a cat stretching, her hands exquisitely graceful as she held them poised in the air.

"Bella Regina Cleopatra," he sighed. Was it safe now to leave her? Could he make her understand? Perhaps if Malenka stood outside in the street before the bolted door until he came back.

"I must go now, Your Majesty. I must get more of the medicine if I can."

She turned, stared at him blankly. She didn't know what he was talking about! Was it possible she could not even remember what had happened moments before? She was trying to remember.

"From Ramses," he said.

There was a spark in her eye, then a deep shadow over her face. She whispered something, but he didn't hear it. "Kind Lord Rutherford," she said.

He pulled firmly, on the hairbrush. Her hair was now a great soft drift of rippling waves.

The strangest light had come into her expression; her mouth was stack; her cheeks flushed.

She turned and stroked his face. She said something quickly in Latin that meant he possessed an older man's knowledge and a young man's mouth.

He puzzled over it, trying to think as she looked into his eyes. It seemed his own awareness of things drifted in and out; one moment she was this deeply afflicted creature he must care for; the next the great Cleopatra, and the full shock of it struck him again.

Luscious, this woman; the seducer of Caesar. She drew closer to him. It seemed the shrewdness had returned. Then her arm went up around his neck. Her fingers stroked his hair.

Warm her flesh. Dear God, the same flesh that had lain rotted and black beneath that dirty glass, thick and impenetrable as tar, that mass.

But these eyes, these deep hazel eyes with the tiny flecks of yellow in the pupils, impossible that they had sprung alive again from the dark filth. The filth of death. . . . Her lips touched his suddenly. Her mouth opened against his and he felt her tongue sliding between his teeth.

Instantly, his sex stirred. But this was madness. He was incapable. His heart, the pain in his bones, he could not possibly . . . She pushed her breasts against him. Through the cloth he felt their throbbing heat. The lace, the pearl buttons; they only made her seem all the more deliciously savage.

His vision blurred, he saw the naked bones of her fingers as she reached to force his hair back oft" his forehead, as her kiss became more insistent and her tongue plunged deep into his mouth.

Cleopatra, the lover of Caesar, of Antony, and of Ramses the Damned. He closed his arms around her waist. She went back on the lace pillows, pulling him down on top of her.

He groaned aloud, his mouth gnawing at her. God, to take her. His hand gathered up the silk skirts and plunged between her legs. Moist, hot hair mere, moist lips.

"Good, Lord Rutherford," she said in Latin. Her hips knocked against him, against his sex bulging and ready to be free.

He opened the few buttons quickly. How many years had it been since the thing was done in such haste? But there was no question now of what was meant to happen.

"Ah, take me, Lord Rutherford!" came her hissing whisper. "Plunge your dagger into my soul!"

And this is how I die. Not from the horrors I've beheld. But from this, this which is beyond my strength yet irresistible. He kissed her almost cruelly, his sex pumping between her damp thighs. The sweet evil laughter was bubbling out of her.

He shut his eyes as he thrust against the tight little fount.

"You cannot stay here, sire," Samir said. "The risk is too great. They're watching the entrance. Surely we are being followed wherever we go. And sire, they searched your room, they found the ancient coins. They may have found . . . more than that."

"No. There was nothing else for them to find. But I must speak with you, both of you."

"Some sort of hiding place," Julie said. "Where we can meet."

"I can arrange this," Samir said. "But I need a couple of hours. Can you come to me outside the Great Mosque at three o'clock? I shall dress as you are dressed."

"I'm coming with you! "Julie insisted. "Nothing is going to keep me away."

"Julie, you don't know what I've done," Ramses whispered.

"Ah, then you must tell me," she said. "These robes, Samir can get them for me as well as for himself."

"Oh, how I love you," Ramses whispered very low under his breath. "And I need you. But for your own sake, Julie, do not-"

"Whatever it is, I stand with you."

"Sire, leave now. There are policemen everywhere in this hotel. They will come back to question us. At the mosque. Three o'clock."

* * *

The pain in his chest was bad, but he wasn't dying. He sat slumped in a small wooden chair near the bed. He needed a drink from the bottle in the other room, but he had no stamina to get it. It was all he could manage to slowly button his shirt.

He turned to look at her again, her smooth waxen face in sleep. But now her eyes were open. She sat up and held out the glass vial to him.

"Medicine," she said.

"Yes, I shall get it. But you must stay here. You understand?" In Latin first he explained it. "You are safe here. You must remain in this house."

It seemed she did not want to do this.

"Where will you go?" she asked. She looked around her; she looked at the window beside the bed, open onto the slanting afternoon sun and a barren whitewashed wall. "Egypt. I do not believe this is Egypt."

"Yes, yes, my dear. And I must try to find Ramses."

That spark again, and then the confusion, and suddenly the panic.

But he rose; he could delay this no longer. He could only hope and pray that Ramses had somehow gotten free of his captors. Surely Julie and Alex had marshalled the appropriate lawyers. Whatever the case, he must try to reach the hotel.

"Not very long, Your Majesty," he said to her. "I shall return with the medicine as soon as I can."

She did not appear to trust him. She watched suspiciously as he went out of the room.

Malenka sat crouched still in die corner of the sitting room. She was shivering and she stared at him with empty, stupid eyes.

"My dear, listen to me," he said. He found his cane by the drinks cupboard and took it in hand. "I want you to go out with me, lock the door and stand guard."

Did the girl understand? She was staring past him; he turned around and saw Cleopatra in the door-barefoot, her hair streaming, so that again she looked utterly savage in the proper pink silk English dress. She stared at Malenka.

The girl recoiled, whimpering. Her loathing and fear were plain.

"No, no, dearest. Come with me," Elliott said. "Don't be afraid, she won't hurt you."

Malenka was too terrified to listen or obey. Her piteous cries grew louder. Cleopatra's blank face had changed to a mask of rage.

She came towards the helpless woman, who stared at the naked bones in her hand and in her foot.

"She's only a servant girl," said the Earl, reaching out for Cleopatra's arm. She pivoted and slapped him, knocking him backwards so that he fell against the parrot's cage. As Malenka screamed in pure hysteria, the bird began to screech frantically, beating his wings against the bars.

Elliott tried to steady himself. The girl must stop screaming. This was a disaster. Cleopatra, looking from the screeching bird to the screaming woman, appeared on the verge of hysteria herself. Then she lunged at the woman, grabbing her by the throat and forcing her down on her knees as she had done to Henry only hours before.

"No, stop it." Elliott hurled himself at her. This time he could not let it happen, and once again he felt her powerful blow knocking him yards across the room. He fell against the wall, his hand up on the plaster. Then came that sound, that unspeakable sound. The girl was dead. Cleopatra had broken her neck.

The bird had ceased its screeching. It stared with one round senseless eye into the room. Malenka lay on her back on the carpet, her head wrenched to one side at an impossible angle, her brown eyes half-closed.

Cleopatra stood staring down at her. Thoughtfully she looked at the girl. Then she said in Latin:

"She is dead."

Elliott didn't answer. He gripped the edge of the marble-top cupboard and pulled himself to his feet. The throbbing in his chest meant nothing to him. Nothing could equal the pain in his soul.

"Why did you do it!" he whispered. Oh, but was he mad to ask such a question of this being? This thing whose brain was damaged, without doubt, as her body was damaged, beautiful though she was.

Almost innocently she stared at Elliott. Then she looked back at the dead woman.

' 'Tell me, Lord Rutherford, how did I come to be here!'' Her eyes narrowed. She approached him. In fact, she reached out and effortlessly helped him to stand upright. She picked up the walking stick and put it in his left hand. "Where did I come from?" she asked. "Lord Rutherford!" She bent forward, her eyes growing wide and full of terror. "Lord Rutherford, was I dead?"

She didn't wait for him to answer; her scream came in pulses. He embraced her, and put his hand over her mouth.

"Ramses brought you here. Ramses! You called out to him. You saw him."

"Yes!" She stood still, not struggling, merely clutching his wrist. "Ramses was there. And when I ... when I called out to him, he ran from me. Like the woman, he ran from me! That same look in his eyes."

"He wanted to come back to you. Others stopped him. Now I must go to get him. Do you understand? You must stay here. You must wait for me." She stared past him. "Ramses has the medicine," he said. "I shall bring it back here."

"How long?"

"A few hours," he said. "It's mid-afternoon. I'll be back before dark."

She moaned again, and pressed her curved thumb to her teeth, staring at the floor. She looked like a child suddenly, a child wrestling with an enormous puzzle. "Ramses," she whispered. Clearly she was not certain who he was.

He patted her shoulder gently; then with the aid of his cane, he approached the body of the girl. What in the name of heaven was he to do with it? Let it lie here and rot as the hours passed? How could he bury it in the garden, when he could barely walk as it was? He closed his eyes and laughed to himself bitterly. It seemed a thousand years since he had seen his son, or Julie, or the civilized rooms of a common place like Shepheard's Hotel. It seemed a thousand years ago that he had done anything normal or loved anything normal; or believed in it; or made the sacrifices that normality required.

"Go, get the medicine," she said to him. She stepped between him and the dead woman. She reached down and lifted Malenka by her right arm. Effortlessly she dragged the woman across the carpet, past the clucking bird, which had the good fortune to be silent, and threw the corpse of the woman out into the yard as if it were a stuffed doll. The body landed on its face against the far wall.

Do not think now. Go to Ramses. Go!

"Three hours," he said to her, again using the two languages. "Bolt the door after me. You see the bolt?"

She turned and looked at the door. She nodded.

"Very well, Lord Rutherford," she said in Latin. "Before dark."

* * *

She did not bolt the door. She stood there, her hands on the bare wood, listening as he walked away. It would take him a long time to move out of sight.

And she must get out of this place! She must see where she was! This could not be Egypt. And she could not understand why she was here, or why she hungered so, and could not be satisfied, or why she felt this sharp, enervating desire to be in a man's arms. She would have forced Lord Rutherford again if she had not wanted him to go on his errand.

But the errand; it was not clear to her suddenly. He meant to get the medicine, but what was the medicine! How could she live with the great gaping wounds she had?

Yet only a moment ago she'd realized something about this, something to do with that dead woman, that shrieking slave girl whose neck she'd snapped.

Ah, but the thing to do was leave here, while Lord Rutherford was not here to scold her like a teacher and tell her to remain.

In a haze, she remembered the streets she had glimpsed earlier, full of great rumbling monstrous things made from metal; full of foul smoke and deafening noise. Who were the people she had seen around her? Women in dresses such as she wore.

She'd been terrified then; but her body had been full of aches and misery. Now her body was full of cravings. She must not be terrified. She must go.

She went back into the bedchamber. She opened the "magazine" called Harper's Weekly and looked at the drawings of pretty women in these strange dresses that pinched them in the middle like insects. Then she looked at herself in the mirror on the cabinet door.

She needed a covering for her head, and sandals. Yes, sandals. Quickly she searched the bedchamber, and found them in a wooden closet-sandals with gold worked into the leather, and small enough for her feet; and a great strange thing with silk flowers all over it, a thing such as one would wear to keep off rain.

She laughed as she looked at it. Then she put it on her head, and tied the ribbons under her chin. Now she looked very much like the women in the pictures. Except for her hands. What was she to do about her hands!

She stared at the naked bones of the first right finger. A thin covering of skin overlaid them, but it was like silk, more sheer than the dress. She could see blood in it; but it was transparent. And the mere sight of the bones caused her to become dizzy, confused again.

A memory-someone standing above her. No, don't let it begin again. She must wrap her hand in something, a bandage. The left hand would do well enough. She turned and began to search through the cabinet of female clothes.

And then she made the loveliest discovery! Here were two little silk garments made for hands. They were white; they had pearls sewn on them! Each had five fingers and had been cut to fit closely over the hand. This was perfect. She slipped them on; they hid the naked bone completely.

Ah, the wonder of what Lord Rutherford had called these "modern times." These times of music boxes and "motor cars," as he called them, the things she had seen this morning, all around her, like great roaring hippopotami from the river.

What would Lord Rutherford call these things, these clothes for hands?

She was wasting tune. She went to the dressing table, gathered up a few small coins that lay there and put these in the deep hidden side pocket of the heavy skirt.

As she opened the front door of the house, she glanced over at the dead body, out in the courtyard, heaped against the wall. Something, what was it, she had to understand it, but it simply would not come clear to her. Something . . .

She saw again that hazy figure standing over her. She heard again those sacred words. A tongue she knew speaking to her. This was the tongue of your forefathers, you must learn it. No, but that had been another time. They had been in a bright room full of Italian marble, and he had been teaching her. This time, it had been dark and hot and she'd been struggling upwards as if from deep water, her limbs weak, the water crushing her, her mourn full of water so that she couldn't scream.

"Your heart beats again; you come to life! You are young and strong once more; you are now and forever,"

No, do not weep again! Do not struggle to grasp it, to see it. The figure moving away; blue eyes. She had known those blue eyes. As soon as I drank it, it happened. The priestess showed me in the mirror , . . blue eyes. Ah, but whose voice was this! This voice that had said the prayer in the darkness, the ancient sacred prayer for the opening of the mummy's mouth.

She had called out his name! And here, in (his strange little house, Lord Rutherford had spoken the name also. Lord Rutherford was going . . .

Be back before dark.

It was no use. She stared through the archway at the dead body. She must get out into this strange land. And she must remember that it was extremely easy to kill them, to snap their necks like brittle stems.

She hurried out, without closing the door. The whitewashed houses on either side of her looked familiar and good to her. She had known such cities. Maybe this was Egypt, but no, that could not be.

She rushed along, holding the ribbons tight so that the strange headdress would not fly from her hair. So easy to walk fast. And the sun felt so good to her. The sun. In a flash she saw it flooding down from a high portal in a cave. A wooden shutter had opened. She heard the creak of the chain.

Then it was gone, the memory, if it had even been a memory. Wake, Ramses.

That was his name. But she didn't care now. She was free to roam this strange city; free to discover, to see!