The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

7

THIS WAS the great adventure of her life. Nothing after could ever equal it, of that she was sure. And how utterly surprising that it should be in London, at midday, rushing to and fro amid the noisy, crowded streets she'd known all her life.

Never before had the vast, grimy city seemed magical to her. But it did now. And how did he perceive it-this overgrown metropolis, with its towering brick buildings, its rumbling trams and belching motor cars, and hordes of dark horse-drawn carriages and cabs choking every street. What was he to make of the never-ending advertising, signs of all sizes and descriptions offering goods, services, directions and advice? Were the dim department stores with their stacks of ready-made clothing ugly to him? What did he make of the little shops where the electric lights burned all day long because the streets themselves were too smoky and dark to admit the natural light of the daytime sky?

He loved it. He embraced it. Nothing frightened him or repelled him. He rushed off the curb to lay hands on the motor cars as they idled. He scampered up the winding steps of the omnibuses to see from the top deck. Into the telegraph office, he sped to study the young secretary at her typewriter. And she, at once charmed by this blue-eyed giant of a man bending over her, sat back to let him strike the keys with his own deft fingers, which he did, at once pounding out Latin sentences which sent him into peals of laughter until he could not go on.

To the offices of The Times, Julie spirited him. He must see the giant printing presses, smell the black ink, hear the deafening noise that filled those immense rooms. He must make the connection among all these inventions. He must see how simple it all was.

She watched as he charmed people everywhere that they went. Men and women deferred to him, as if they knew instinctively that he was royalty. His bearing, his great strides, his radiant smile, subdued those at whom he stared fixedly, those whose hands he hastily clasped, those whose conversation or casual words he listened to, as if receiving a secret message which must not be misunderstood.

There were philosophical words to describe his state of being, surely, but Julie could not think what they were. She only knew that he took joy in tilings, that the steam shovel and the steam roller failed to terrify him because he anticipated shocks and surprises and wanted only to comprehend.

So many questions to ask him. So many concepts she struggled to express. That was the hardest part. Concepts.

But talk of abstractions became easier by the hour. He was learning English with dizzying speed.

"Name!" he would say to her if she ceased for so much as a minute her endless commentary. "Language is names, Julie. Names for people, objects, what we feel." He hammered on his breast as he said the last words. The Latin quare, quid, quo, qui had dropped completely from his speech by midafternoon.

"English is old, Julie. Tongue of barbarians from my time, and now filled with Latin. You hear the Latin? What is that, Julie! Explain this to me!"

"But there is no order to what I am teaching you," she said. She wanted to explain about printing, relate it to the stamping of coins.

"I make the order later," he assured her. He was too busy now ducking into the back of bakers and soup kitchens, into the shoemaker's and the milliner's, and studying the refuse thrown in the alleyways, and eyeing the paper parcels which people carried, and staring at women's clothes.

And staring at the women, too.

If that isn't lust, I am no judge of character, Julie thought. He would have frightened the women had he not been so expensively dressed, and oddly self-possessed. In fact, his whole manner of standing, gesturing, speaking, had a great compelling force to it. This is a King, she thought, out of time and place, yet nevertheless a King.

She steered him into the bookseller's. She pointed out the old names, Aristotle, Plato, Euripedes, Cicero. He stared at the Aubrey Beardsley prints on the wall.

Photographs positively delighted him. Into a little studio, Julie took him to have his own portrait taken. His pleasure was almost childlike. Even more wonderful, he exclaimed, was that even the poor of this great city could have such pictures made.

But when he beheld moving pictures, he was positively stunned. In the crowded little cinema, he gasped, clinging tight to Julie's hand, as the giant luminescent figures scurried about on the screen before them. Tracing the projectionists' beams with his eye, he made at once for the little room in back, tearing open the door without hesitation. But the old projectionist fell prey to his charm as did everyone else, and was soon explaining the entire mechanism in detail.

At last as they entered the giant dark cavern of Victoria Station, the mighty chugging locomotives brought him to a dead halt. But even these he approached fearlessly. He touched the cold black iron, and stood dangerously close to the giant wheels. Behind the departing train, he put his foot on the track to feel the vibration. Dazed, he stared at the crowds.

"Thousands of people, transported from one end of Europe to the other," she cried out over the noise around them. "Journeys which once took months now take but a few days."

"Europe," he whispered. "Italia to Britannia."

' The trains are carried on ships across the water. The poor of the open country can come into the cities. All men know the cities, do you see?"

He nodded gravely. He squeezed her hand. "No haste, Julie. All will be understood in time." Flash of his brilliant smile again, that great sudden warmth of affection for her which made her blush and look away.

"Temples, Julie. The houses of the deus . . . di."

"Gods. But there is only one now. One God."

Disbelief. One God?

Westminster Abbey. They walked together under the high arches. Such splendor. She showed him the cenotaph of Shakespeare.

"Not the house of God," she said, "But the place where we gather to talk to him." How explain Christianity? "Brotherly love," she said. "That is the basis,"

He looked at her in confusion. "Brotherly love?" Keenly, he watched the people around him.

"Do they believe this religion?" he asked. "Or is it habit alone?''

By late afternoon he was speaking coherently in whole paragraphs. He told her that he liked English. It was a good language for thinking. Greek and Latin had been excellent for thinking. Egyptian, no. With each new language he had learned in his earlier existence his capacity for understanding had improved. Language made possible whole kinds of thinking. Ah, that the common people of this era read newspapers, crowded with words! What must the thinking of the common man be? "Are you not the least bit tired?" Julie asked, finally. "No, never tired," he said, "except in the heart and the soul. Hungry. Food, Julie. I desire much food."

They entered the quiet of Hyde Park together, and despite his disclaimers he did seem relieved by the sudden timeless trees around him, by the vision of the sky through branches as it might have been seen at any moment or from any vantage point on earth.

They found a little bench on the path. He fell into silence watching the strollers. And how they stared at him-this man of powerful build with his fiercely exuberant expression. Did he know he was handsome? she wondered. Did he know that the mere touch of his hand sent a frisson through her which she tried to ignore?

Oh, so much to show him. She took him to the offices of Stratford Shipping, praying that no one would recognize her, and led him into the wrought-iron lift, and pressed the button for the roof.

"Wires and pulleys," she explained.

"Britannia," he whispered as they looked out on the rooftops of London; as they listened to the scream of the factory whistles, to the jangling of the tram bells far below. "America, Julie." He turned to her excitedly, clasping her shoulders, his fingers surprisingly gentle. "How many days by mechanical ship to America?"

' 'Ten days, I believe. One could be in Egypt in less time than that. A passage to Alexandria is six days."

Why had she said those words? His face darkened ever so slightly. "Alexandria," he whispered, pronouncing it as she had. "Alexandria still stands?"

She led him to the lift. So much more to see. She explained there was still an Athens, still a Damascus, still an Antioch. And Rome, of course there was Rome.

A wild idea had come to her. Hailing a hansom, she told the driver: "Madame Tussaud's."

All those costumed figures in the wax museum. Hastily she explained what it was, a panorama of history. She would show him American Indians, she would show him Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun-creatures who had brought terror to Europe after Rome fell.

She could not envision the mosaic of facts being created for him. His equanimity amazed her more and more.

But they had been in Madame Tussaud's only a few moments when she realized her error. His composure crumbled at the first sight of Roman soldiers. He recognized the figure of Julius Caesar instantly. And then in disbelief he stared at the Egyptian Cleopatra, a wax doll which bore no resemblance to the bust he had cherished or the coins he still possessed. But her identity was unmistakable as she reclined on her gilded couch, the snake coiled in her hands, its fangs just beneath her breast. The stiff figure of Mark Antony stood behind her, a characterless man in Roman military dress.

Ramses' face coloured. There was something savage in his eyes as he turned to Julie, then looked back at the printed labels beneath this display.

Why hadn't she realized these figures would be here? Why hadn't she remembered? She caught his hand as he backed away from the glass. He turned around, almost stumbling into a couple who blocked his path. The man said something threatening, but Ramses didn't seem to hear it. He was hurrying towards the exit. She ran after him.

He appeared calmer when she reached the street. He was scanning the traffic. He reached out for her hand without looking at her, and together they proceeded slowly until he stopped to watch the workmen on a construction sight. The great cement mixer was churning. The sound of hammering echoed against distant walls.

A faint bitter smile passed over Ramses' lips. Julie hailed a passing hansom.

"Where shall we go now?" she asked. "Tell me what you want to see."

He was staring at a beggar woman, a ragged figure in broken-down shoes who extended her hand now as she passed.

"The poor," he said, glancing at the woman. "Why are the poor still here?"

They rode silently through cobblestone streets. Strings of laundry closed out the damp gray sky. The smoke of cooking fires rose in the alleys. Barefoot children with soiled faces turned to watch them pass.

"But cannot all this wealth help these people? They are as poor as the peasants of my land."

"Some things don't change with time," Julie said. "And your father? He was a rich man?" She nodded. "He built a great shipping company-ships that carry merchandise from India and Egypt to England and America. Ships that circle the world."

"For this wealth, Henry tried to kill you, as he killed your father in the tomb."

Julie stared straight forward. It seemed the words would strip away every vestige of control she had. This day, this adventure, it had carried her to the heights, and now she felt herself descending. Henry killed Father. It was near impossible for her to speak.

Ramses took her hand in his.

"There should have been enough wealth for all of us," she said, her voice strained. "Enough for me, for Henry, for Henry's father."

"Yet your father dug in Egypt for treasure." "No, not for treasure!" She looked at him sharply. "He dug to find evidence of the past. Your writings meant more to him than the rings on your ringers. The story you told, that was his treasure. That and the painted coffin because it was a pure thing, from your time."

"Archaeology," Ramses said.

"Yes." She smiled in spite of herself. "My father was not a robber of tombs."

"I understand you. Don't become angry." "He was a scholar," she said, a little more gently. "He had all the money he needed. If he made a mistake, it was that he left his company to his brother, and to his nephew, but then he paid them so very well."

She stopped. She felt weary suddenly. Beneath the euphoria, she had been ever mindful of what happened; and the pain had only begun.

"Something went wrong," she whispered.

"Greed is what went wrong. Greed is what always goes wrong."

He was looking out the window at the dull, broken windows above. Foul smells rose from the puddles and from the doorways. The stench of urine, and decay.

She herself had never been in this part of London. It saddened her; it exacerbated her own pain.

"This Henry should be stopped," Ramses said firmly. "Before he tries again to hurt you. And your father's death, surely you want it avenged."

"It will kill my uncle Randolph when he finds out what happened. That is, if he doesn't already know."

"The uncle, the one who came this morning with such fear for you-he's innocent and is afraid for his son. But cousin Henry is evil. And the evil is unchecked."

She was trembling. The tears had risen to her eyes.

"I can't do anything now. He's my cousin. They're my only family. And when something is done, it will have to be in a court of law.''

"You are in danger, Julie Stratford," he said to her.

"Ramses, I am not a Queen here. I cannot act on my own."

"But I am a King. I always will be. My conscience can bear this burden. Let me act when I see fit."

"No!" she whispered. She looked up at him imploringly. He pressed his arm against her, gently, then reached as if to embrace her. She held steady. "Promise me you will do nothing. If something happens, it will be on my conscience too."

"He killed your father."

"Kill him and you kill my father's daughter," she said.

There was a silent moment in which he merely looked at her, marveling perhaps, she couldn't tell. She felt his right arm on her left arm. Then he drew her close to him, her breasts against his chest, and he kissed her, his mouth opening over hers. The heat was immediate and utterly consuming. She reached up to push him away, and found her fingers slipping up through his hair. She cradled his head gently. And then drew back, thoughtlessly, astonished.

For a moment she couldn't speak. Her face was flushed, and she felt soft all over, and utterly exposed. She closed her eyes. She knew that if he touched her again, the game was up. She would end up making love to him in this cab, if she didn't do something. . . .

"What did you think I was, Julie?" he asked. "A spirit? I'm an immortal man."

He moved to kiss her again; she moved away, her hand up.

"Shall we speak again of Henry?" he asked. He took her hand and clasped it and kissed her fingers. ' 'Henry knows what I am. He saw, because I moved to save your life, Julie. He saw. And there is no reason to let him live with this knowledge, since he is evil and deserves to die."

He knew she could hardly concentrate on the words he was speaking. It made her angry suddenly, his lips grazing her fingers, his blue eyes flashing like lights in the dim cab.

"Henry made a fool of himself with that story," she said. "And he won't try to hurt me again." She withdrew her hand and looked out the window. They were leaving this sad, miserable slum. Thank God.

He gave a little thoughtful shrug.

"Henry's a coward," she said. Her body was under control again. "A terrible coward. The way he did it to Father, such a coward."

"Cowards can be more dangerous than brave men, Julie," he said,

"Don't hurt him!" she whispered. She turned again to face Ramses. "For my sake, leave it to God. I can't be his judge and jury!"

"So like a Queen," he said. "And wiser than most Queens."

He bent slowly to kiss her again. She knew she ought to turn away, but she didn't. And the heat flooded her again, weakening her completely. When she pulled away, he tried to hold her; but her immediate resistance won out.

When she looked at him again, he was smiling.

"A guest in your court," he said with a little gesture of acceptance, "my Queen."

* * *

Elliott had not the slightest difficulty overwhelming Rita. Even as she begged him to understand that her mistress was not at home, and surely he must come back another time, he moved past her, directly into the Egyptian room.

"Ah, these lovely treasures. Not enough time in the world to examine them. Do get me a glass of sherry, Rita. I find I'm tired. I'll rest for a moment before going home."

"Yes, sir, but-"

"Sherry, Rita."

"Yes, sir."

How anxious and pale she looked, poor girl. And what a mess this library was. There were books scattered everywhere. He looked at the table in the conservatory. He could see from where he stood that there were dictionaries stacked on the wicker table; papers and magazines in neat little piles all about the chairs.

But Lawrence's diary was here on the desk, just as he hoped. He opened it, confirmed that there was no mistake, then slipped it under his coat.

He was staring at the mummy case when Rita came to him, with the glass of sherry on a small silver tray.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he lifted the glass and took only a taste of it. "You wouldn't let me have a look at the mummy, now would you?" he asked.

"Good Lord, no, sir! Please don't touch it!" Rita said. Pure panic as she stared at the mummy case. "It's very heavy, sir! We mustn't try to lift it."

"There, there. You know as well as I do that it's a thin wooden shell, and not very heavy at all."

The girl was terrified.

He smiled. He took out a sovereign and gave it to her. She was astonished. She shook her head.

"No, take it, dearest. Buy yourself something pretty."

And before she could think what to say, he moved past her and towards the front door. She hurried to open it for him.

He paused only when he had reached the bottom of the steps. Now, why hadn't he forced the issue? Why hadn't he looked in that case?

His man Walter came forward to assist him. Good old Walter, who had been with him since he was a boy. He let Walter help him up into the idling car now, and he sat back, the pain in his hip biting deeply as he stretched out his legs.

Would he have been surprised to find that case empty, to discover that this was not a little game? On the contrary. He realized that he fully believed the case was empty. And he had been afraid to see that for himself.

Mr. Hancock of the British Museum was not a patient man. All his life he had used his devotion to Egyptian antiquities to bully people, to justify rudeness and downright meanness to others. This was part of his nature, as much as his genuine love for the relics and papyri which he had been studying ail his life.

He read aloud the headline before him to the three other gentlemen in the room.

" 'Mummy Walks in Mayfair.' " He folded the papers. "This is perfectly disgusting. Is young Stratford out of his mind?"

The older gentleman who sat directly opposite on the other side of the desk merely smiled.

"Henry Stratford's a drunkard, and a gambler. The mummy climbed out of its case, indeed!"

"But the point is," said Hancock, "we have entrusted a priceless collection of antiquities to a private household, and now we have this little scandal! With Scotland Yard coming and going and reporters from the gutter press on the steps."

"If you will forgive me," the elder gentleman countered. ' "The matter of the stolen coin is much more disturbing.''

"Yes," said Samir Ibrahaim quietly from the outer edge of the circle where he sat. "But I tell you there were only five when I cataloged the collection, and none of us has seen this so-called stolen coin."

"Nevertheless," said Hancock, "Mr. Taylor is a reputable coin dealer. He was certain the coin was authentic. And that it was Henry Stratford who offered it for sale."

"Stratford could have stolen it in Egypt," said the elder gentleman. There were a couple of nods from the circle.

"The collection should be in the museum," said Hancock. ' 'We should be making our examinations of the Ramses mummy now. The Cairo Museum is angry about this controversy. And now, this coin-"

"But, gentlemen," Samir interrupted. "Surely we can make no decision about the safety of the collection until we've talked to Miss Stratford."

"Miss Stratford is very young," Hancock said snappishly. "And she is in a state of grief which clouds her judgment."

"Yes," said the elder gentleman. "But surely everyone present realizes that Lawrence Stratford contributed millions to this museum. No, I think Samir is right. We cannot move the collection until Miss Stratford gives her permission."

Hancock glanced again at the newspapers. " 'Ramses Rises from the Grave,' " he read. "I tell you I don't like it."

"Perhaps another guard should be posted," said Samir. "Perhaps two."

The elder gentleman nodded. "Good suggestion. But again, Miss Stratford's feelings are to be considered."

"Perhaps you should call on her!" Hancock said, glaring at Samir. "You were her father's friend."

"Very well, sir," Samir answered in a low voice. "I shall certainly do that."

* * *

Early evening: the Hotel Victoria. Ramses had been dining since four o'clock, when the sun was still slanting through the leaded glass, onto the white-draped tables. Now it was dark; candles blazed everywhere; the ceiling fans turned very slowly, barely stirring the fronds of the tall, elegant dark-green palms in their brass pots.

Liveried waiters brought plate after plate of food without comment, eyebrows arched as they opened the fourth bottle of Italian red wine.

Julie had finished her scant meal hours ago. They were deep in conversation now, the English flowing as easily as the wine flowed.

She had taught Ramses how to use the heavy silver, but he ignored it. In his time only a barbarian would have shoveled food into the mouth.

In fact, he had remarked after a little consideration, no one had shoveled food into the mouth. There was time for Julie to explain how silverware had come about. For now, she must agree that he was most, most . . . fastidious, she volunteered. Elegant, civilized, deft at the breaking of bread and meat into small portions, and the placing of them on the tongue without the ringers touching the lips.

She was now deep into her discussion of revolution. "The first machines were simple-for weaving, tilling the fields. It was the idea of the machine that caught the mind."

"Yes."

"If you make a machine to do one thing, then you can perfect a machine to do another. ..."

"I understand you."

"And then came the steam engine, the motor car, the telephone, the airplane."

"I want to do it, fly in the sky."

"Of course, and we shall do it. But do you understand the concept, the revolution in thinking?"

"Of course. I don't come to you, as you say, from the nineteenth dynasty of Egypt's history, I come to you from the first days of the Roman Empire. My mind is, how do you say it, flexible, adaptable. I am constantly in, how do you say it, revolution?"

Something startled him; at first she didn't realize what it was. The orchestra had begun, very softly, so that she scarcely heard it over the hum of conversation. He rose, dropping his napkin. He pointed across the crowded room.

The soft strains of the "Merry Widow Waltz" rose strongly over the hum of conversation. Julie turned to see the little string orchestra assembled on the other side of the small polished dance floor.

Ramses rose and went towards them. "Ramses, wait," Julie said. But he didn't listen to her. She hurried after him. Surely everyone was looking at the tall man who marched across the dance floor and came to a quick stop right in front of the musicians as if he were the conductor himself.

He positively glared at the violins, at the cello; and then as he studied the huge golden harp, the smile came back, so clearly ecstatic that the female violinist smiled at him and the old grey-haired male cellist seemed vaguely amused.

They must have thought him a deaf mute as he stepped up and laid his fingers right on the cello, drawing back at the power of the vibration, then touching it again. "Oooh, Julie," he whispered aloud. Everyone was looking. Even the waiters were glancing at them in obvious alarm. But nobody dared question the handsome gentleman in Lawrence's best suit and silk waistcoat, even when he shuddered all over and clamped his hands to the sides of his head.

She tugged on him. He wouldn't budge. "Julie, such sounds!" he whispered.

"Then dance with me, Ramses," she said.

No one else was dancing, but what did that matter? There was the dance floor, and she felt like dancing. She felt like dancing more than anything in the world.

Baffled, he looked at her, then allowed himself to be turned, and his hand to be taken properly as she slipped her arm about his waist.

"Now, this is the way the man leads the woman," she said, beginning the waltz step and moving him easily. "My hand should really be on your shoulder. I shall move, and you . . . that's it. But allow me to lead."

They turned faster and faster, Ramses following her lead beautifully, only glancing down now and then at his feet. Another couple had joined them; then came another. But Julie didn't see them; she saw only Ramses' rapt face, and the way his eyes moved over the commonplace treasures of the room. It was a haze suddenly, the candles, the gilded fan blades turning above, the drowsing flowers on the tables, and the shimmer of silver everywhere, and the music surrounding them, the music carrying them along ever faster.

He laughed out loud suddenly. "Julie, like music poured from a goblet. Like music that has become wine."

She turned him rapidly in small circles.

"Revolution!" he cried out.

She threw back her head and laughed.

Quite suddenly it was over. There must have been a finale. All she knew was that it was finished, and that he was about to kiss her, and she didn't want him to stop. But he hesitated. He noted the other couples leaving. He took her hand.

"Yes, time to go," she said.

The night outside was cold and foggy. She gave the doorman a few coins. She wanted a hansom.

Ramses paced back and forth, staring at the crowds of commercial travellers coming and going from motor cars and carriages, at the newsboy dashing up to him with the latest edition.

"Mummy's Curse in Mayfair!" the boy cried shrilly. "Mummy Rises from the Grave!"

Before she could reach him, Ramses had snatched the paper from the boy. Flustered, she gave the child a coin.

There it was all right, the whole silly scandal. An ink sketch of Henry running away from her front stairs.

"Your cousin," Ramses said gloomily. " 'Mummy's Curse Strikes Again . . .' "he read slowly.

"No one believes it! It's a joke."

He continued to read: "Gentlemen of the British Museum say that the Ramses collection is entirely safe and will be returned to the museum soon." He paused. "Museum," he said. "Explain this word museum. What is the museum, a tomb?"

The poor girl was miserable, Samir could see it. He ought to go. But he had to see Julie. And so he waited in the drawing room, sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, refusing Rita's third offer of coffee, tea, or wine.

Now and then he glanced down the length of the house to see the gleaming Egyptian coffin. If only Rita did not stand there, but clearly she was not going to leave him alone.

* * *

The museum had been closed for hours. But she wanted him to see it. She let the cab go and followed him to the iron fence. He gripped the pickets as he looked up at the door and the high windows. The street was dark, deserted. And a light rain had begun to fall.

"There are many mummies inside," she said. "Your mummy, it would have gone here eventually. Father worked for the British Museum, though he paid his own costs."

"Mummies of Kings and Queens of Egypt?"

"There are more in Egypt, actually. A mummy of Ramses the Second has been there for years in a glass case.''

He gave a short bitter laugh as he looked at her. "Have you seen this?" He looked back at the museum. "Poor fool. He never knew that he was buried in Ramses' tomb."

"But who was he?" Her heart quickened. Too many questions on the tip of her tongue.

"I never knew," he said quietly, eyes still moving slowly over the building as though he were memorizing. "I sent my soldiers to find a dying man, someone unloved and uncared for. They brought him back to the palace by night. And so I ... how do you say? Made my own death. And then my son, Meneptah, had what he wanted, to be King.'' He considered for a moment. His voice changed slightly. It deepened. "And now you tell me this body is in a museum with other Kings and Queens?"

"In the Cairo Museum," she said softly. "Near Saqqara, and the pyramids. There's a great city there."

She could see how this was affecting him. Very gently, she continued, though she could not tell whether or not he heard:

"In ancient times, the Valley of the Kings was looted. Grave robbers despoiled almost every tomb. The body of Ramses the Great, it was found with dozens of others in a mass grave made for it by the priests."

He turned and looked at her thoughtfully. Even in great distress, his face seemed open, his eyes searching.

"Tell me, Julie. Queen Cleopatra the Sixth, who ruled in the time of Julius Caesar. Her body lies in this Cairo Museum? Or here?" He turned back to the dark building. She saw the subtle changes in him; the high color again in his face.

"No, Ramses. No one knows what became of the remains of Cleopatra."

"But you know this Queen, whose marble portrait was in my tomb."

"Yes, Ramses, even schoolchildren know the name Cleopatra. All the world knows it. But her tomb was destroyed in ancient times. Ancient times were those times, Ramses."

"I understand, better than I speak, Julie. Continue."

' 'Nobody knows where her tomb stood. Nobody knows what happened to her body. The time of mummies had passed."

"Not so!" he whispered. "She was buried properly, in the old Egyptian fashion, without the magic, and the embalming, but she was wrapped in linen as was fitting, and then taken to her grave by the sea.''

He stopped. He put his hands to his temples. And then he rested his forehead against the iron fence. The rain came a little heavier. She felt chilled suddenly.

"But this mausoleum," he said, collecting himself, folding his arms and stepping back now as if he meant to say what he had to say. "It was a grand structure. It was large and beautiful and covered with marble."

"So the ancient writers tell us. But it is gone. Alexandria contains no trace of it. No one knows where it stood."

He looked at her in silence. "I know, of course," he said.

He walked away from her down the pavement. He stopped under the street lamp and gazed up into the dim yellow incandescent light. Tentatively, she followed. Finally he turned to her, and put out his hand for her and drew her close.

"You feel my pain," he said calmly. "Yet you know so little of me. What do I seem to you?"

She reflected. "A man," she said. "A beautiful and strong man. A man who suffers as we all suffer. And I know things . . . because you wrote them down yourself and you left the scrolls there."

Impossible to tell if this pleased him.

"And your father read these things, too," he said.

"Yes. He made some translations."

"I watched him," he whispered.

"Was it true what you wrote?"

"Why should I lie?"

Suddenly he moved to kiss her, and again she backed off.

"Ah, but you choose the oddest moments for your little advances," she said breathlessly. "We were talking of ... of tragedy, were we not?"

"Of loneliness, perhaps, and folly. And the things grief drives one to do."

His expression was softening. There was that playfulness again, that smile.

"Your temples are in Egypt. They still stand," she said. "The Ramasseum, at Luxor. Abu Simbel. Oh, these aren't the names by which you know them. Your colossal statues! Statues all the world has seen. English poets have written of them. Great generals have journeyed to see them. I've walked past them, laid my hands on them. I've stood in your ancient halls."

He continued to smile. "And now I walk these modern streets with you."

"And it fills you with joy to do it.''

"Yes, that is very true. My temples were old before I ever closed my eyes. But the mausoleum of Cleopatra had only just been built." He broke off, letting go her hand. "Ah, it is like yesterday to me, you see. Yet it is dreamlike and distant. Somehow I felt the passage of the centuries as I slept. My spirit grew as I slept."

She thought of the words in her father's translation.

"What did you dream, Ramses?"

"Nothing, my darling dear, that can touch the wonders of this century!" He paused. "When we are weary, we speak lovingly of dreams as if they embodied our true desires-what we would have when that which we do have so sorely disappoints us. But for this wanderer, the concrete world has always been the true object of desire. And weariness came only when the world seemed dreamlike."

He stared off into the driving rain. She let his words sink in, trying in vain perhaps to grasp their full meaning. Her brief life had been marked with just enough pain to make her cherish what she had. The death of her mother years before had made her cleave all the more closely to her father. She had tried to love Alex Savarell because he wanted her to; and her father hadn't minded it. But what she really loved were ideas, and things, just as her father had. Was that what he meant? She wasn't certain.

"You don't want to go back to Egypt, you don't need to see the old world for yourself?" she asked.

"I am torn," he whispered.

A gust of damp wind swept the forlorn pavements; dry leaves scuttered and banked along the high iron fence. There came a dim zinging from the electric wires above, and Ramses turned to look at them.

"Ever more vivid than a dream," he whispered, staring again at the solitary yellow lamp above him. "I want this time, my darling dear," he said. "You forgive me if I call you this? My darling dear? As you called your friend, Alex."

"You may call me that," she said.

For I love you more than I ever loved him!

He gave her one of those warm, generous smiles. He came to her with his arms out and swept her up off her feet, suddenly.

"Light little Queen," he said.

"Put me down, great King," she whispered.

"And why should I do that?"

"Because I command you to do it."

He obeyed. He set her down gently and gave her a deep bow.

"And now where do we go, my Queen, home to the palace of Stratford, in the region of Mayfair, in the land of London, England, lately known as Britannia?''

"Yes, we do, because I am weary to the bone."

"Yes, and I must study in your father's library, if you permit. I must read the books now to 'put in order,' as you say, the things you've shown me."

* * *

Not a sound in the house. Where had the girl gone? The coffee Samir had finally accepted was now quite cold. He could not drink this watery brew. He had not wanted it in the first place.

He had stared fixedly at the mummy case for over an hour, it seemed, the clock chiming twice in the hallway, an occasional pair of headlights piercing the lace curtains and sweeping this high-ceilinged large room, and firing the mummy's gold face with life for an eerie instant.

Suddenly he rose. He could hear the creak of the floor beneath the carpet. He walked slowly towards the case. Lift it. And you will know. Lift it. Imagine. Could it be empty?

He reached out for the gilded wood, his hands poised, trembling.

"I wouldn't do that, sir!"

Ah, the girl. The girl again in the hallway with her hands clasped, the girl very afraid, but of what?

"Miss Julie would be so angry."

He could think of nothing to say. He gave an awkward little nod, and went back to the sofa.

"Perhaps tomorrow you should come," she said.

"No. I must see her tonight."

"But, sir, it's so very late."

The clop of a horse outside, the low creak of the hansom's wheels. He heard a sudden little laugh, very feint, but he knew it was Julie.

Rita hurried to the door and drew back the bolt. He stared speechless as the pair entered the room, Julie, radiant, her hair studded with sparkling droplets of rain; and a man, a tall, splendid-looking man, with dark brown hair and glittering blue eyes, beside her.

Julie spoke to him. She said his name. But it did not register.

He could not take his eyes off this man. The skin was pale, flawless. And the features exquisitely molded. But the spirit inhabiting the man was the overwhelming characteristic. The man exuded strength and a sudden wanness that was almost chilling.

"I only wanted to ... to look in on you," he said to Julie without so much as glancing at her. ' To see that you were well. I worry on your account. ..."

His voice trailed off.

"Ah, I know who you are!" said the man suddenly, in a faultless British accent. "You are Lawrence's friend, are you not? Your name is Samir."

"We have met?" Samir said. "I do not remember."

His eyes moved tentatively over the figure that approached him now, and suddenly he was staring fixedly at the outstretched hand, at the ruby ring, and the ring with the cartouche of Ramses the Great, and it seemed the room had become quite unreal; that the voices speaking to him were making no sense, and that there was no necessity to answer.

The ring he had seen through the mummy's wrappings! There was no mistake. He could not make such a mistake. And what was Julie saying that could possibly matter now? Words so politely spoken, but all lies, and this being was staring back at him, knowing full well that he recognized the ring, knowing full well that words just didn't matter.

"I hope Henry didn't run to you with that nonsense of his. . . ." Yes, that was the meaning.

But it was not nonsense at all. And slowly he shifted his gaze and forced himself to see for himself that she was safe and sound and sane. Then he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he looked not at the ring but at the King's face, at the steady blue eyes which understood everything.

When he spoke to her again, it was a meaningless murmur:

"Your father would not have wanted for you to be unprotected. Your father would have wanted me to come. ..."

"Ah, but Samir, friend of Lawrence," the other said, "there is no danger now to Julie Stratford.'' And dropping suddenly into the ancient Egyptian with an accent Samir had never heard: "This woman is loved by me and shall be protected from all harm."

Stunning, that sound. He backed away. Julie was talking again. And again he wasn't listening. He had gone to the mantel shelf and held on to it now as if he might fall.

"Surely you know the ancient tongue of the Pharaohs, my friend," said the tall blue-eyed man. "You are Egyptian, are you not? All your life you have studied it. You can read it as well as you read Latin or Greek.''

Such a carefully modulated voice; it was trying to dispel all fear; civilized, courteous. What more could Samir have wanted?

"Yes, sir, you are right," Samir said. "But IVe never heard it spoken aloud, and the accent has always been a mystery. But you must tell me-" He forced himself to look at the man directly again. "You are an Egyptologist, 1 have been told. Do you believe it was the curse on the tomb that killed my beloved friend, Lawrence? Or did death take him naturally as we supposed?"

The man appeared to weigh the question; and in the shadows some feet away, Julie Stratford paled and lowered her eyes, and turned just a little away from both of them.

"Curses are words, my friend," the man said. "Warnings to drive away the ignorant and meddlesome. It requires poison or some other crude weapon to take a human life unnaturally."

"Poison!" Samir whispered.

"Samir, it's very late," Julie said. Her voice was raw, strained. "We mustn't speak of all this now, or I'll give way to tears again and feel foolish. We must speak of these things only when we really want to examine them.'' She came forward and took both his hands. "I want you to come another night, when we can all sit down together."

"Yes, Julie Stratford is very tired. Julie Stratford has been a great teacher. And I bid you good night, my friend. You are my friend, are you not? There are many things perhaps that we can say to each other. But for now, believe I shall protect Julie Stratford from anyone or anything that would hurt her."

Samir walked slowly to the door.

"If you need me," he said, turning back, "you must send for me." He reached into his coat. He took out his card and stared at it, quite baffled for a moment. Then he gave it to the man. He watched the ring glinting in the light as the man took it from him.

"I am in my office at the British Museum very late every night. I walk the corridors when everyone is gone. Come to the side door, and you will find me."

But why was he saying these things? What did he mean to convey? He wished suddenly the creature would speak the ancient tongue again; he could not understand the strange mixture of pain and joy that he felt; the strange darkening of the world, and the keen appreciation of light which had come with that darkening.

He turned and went out, hurrying down the granite steps and past the uniformed guards without so much as a glance in their direction. He walked fast through the cold damp streets. He ignored the cabs mat slowed. He wanted only to be alone. He kept seeing that ring; hearing those old Egyptian words finally denned aloud as he had never heard them. He wanted to weep. A miracle had been revealed; yet somehow it threatened the miraculous all around him.

"Lawrence, give me guidance," he whispered.

* * *

Julie shut the door and slipped the bolt.

She turned to Ramses. She could hear Rita's tread on the floor above. They were alone, quite beyond Rita's hearing.

"You don't mean to trust him with your secret!" she asked.

"The harm is done," he said quietly. "He knows the truth.

And your cousin Henry will tell others. And others, too, will come to believe.''

"No, that's impossible. You saw yourself what happened with the police. Samir knows because he saw the ring; he recognized it. And because he came to see, and came to believe. Others will not do that. And somehow ..."

"Somehow?"

' 'You wanted him to know. That's why you addressed him by name. You told him who you were."

"Did I?"

"Yes, I think that you did."

He pondered this. He didn't find the idea too agreeable. But it was true, she could have sworn so.

"Two who believe can make three," he said, as if she hadn't made the point at all.

"They cannot prove it. You're real, yes, and the ring is real. But what is there really to connect you with the past! You don't understand these times if you think it takes so little for men to believe that one has risen from the grave. This is the age of science, not religion."

He was collecting his thoughts. He bowed his head and folded his arms and moved back and forth on the carpet. Then he stopped:

"Oh, my darling dear, if only you understood," he said. There was no urgency in his voice, but there was great feeling. And it seemed the cadence was English now, almost intimately so. "For a thousand years I guarded this truth," hesaid, "even from those I loved and served. They never knew whence I came, or how long I'd lived, or what had befallen me. And now I've blundered into your time, revealing this truth to more mortals in one full moon than ever knew it since Ramses ruled Egypt."

"I understand," she said. But she was thinking something else quite different. You wrote the whole story in the scrolls. You left them there. And that was because you could not bear this secret any longer. "You don't understand these times," she said again. "Miracles aren't believed, even by those to whom they happen."

"What a strange thing to say!"

"Were I to shout it from the rooftops no one would believe. Your elixir is safe, with or without these poisons."

It seemed a shock of pain went through him. She saw it. She felt it. She regretted her words. What madness to think this creature is all powerful, that his ready smile doesn't conceal a

vulnerability as vast as his strength. She was at a loss. She waited. And then his smile, once again, came to her rescue.

"What can we do but wait and see, Julie Stratford?"

He sighed. He removed his frock coat, and walked away from her into the Egyptian room. He stared at the coffin, his coffin, and then at the row of jars. He reached down and carefully switched on the electric lamp, as he had seen her do, and then looked up at the rows and rows of books rising over Lawrence's desk to the ceiling.

"Surely you need to sleep," she said. "Let me take you upstairs to Father's room."

"No, my darling dear, I do not sleep, except when I mean to take leave of life for the time being.''

"You mean . . . day in and day out, you need no sleep whatsoever!"

"That is correct," he said, flashing her another little smile. "I shall tell you another wicked secret too. I do not need the food or the drink I take, I merely crave it. And my body enjoys it." He laughed softly at her shock. "But what I do need now is to read in your father's books, if you will allow me."

"Of course, you needn't ask me for such a thing," she said. "You must take what you need and what you want. Go to his room when you wish. Put on his robe. I want you to have every comfort." She laughed. "I'm beginning to speak the way you speak."

They looked at each other. Only a few feet separated them, and she was grateful for them.

"I'll leave you now," she said, but instantly he caught her hand, and closed the distance and locked her in his arms, and kissed her again. Then, almost roughly he let her go.

"Julie is Queen in her own domain," he said, a little apologetically.

"And your words to Samir, let us remember them. 'But for now, I shall protect Julie Stratford from anyone or anything that would hurt her.' "

"I did not He. And I should like to lie at your side, the better to protect you."

She laughed softly. Better escape now while it was still morally and physically possible. "Oh, but there is one other thing," she said. She went to the far northeast corner of the room, and opened the cabinet gramophone. She cranked the thing, and looked at the RCA Victor records. Verdi's Ai'da. "Ah, the very thing," she said. And no appalling picture on the front of the album to repel him. She put the heavy, brittle black disk on the velvet turntable. She set the arm in place. And then turned to watch his face as the triumphal march from the opera began, a low, faraway chorus of lovely voices.

"Oooh, but what is this magic! The machine is making music!"

"Just wind and play. And I shall sleep as mortal women do, dreaming, though real life has become all I ever dreamed it would be."

She glanced back once to see him rocking to the music, his arms folded, his head bowed. He was singing with it, very low, under his breath. And even the simple sight of the white shirt stretched taut over his broad back and powerful arms sent the shivers through her.