When the traveller's long day's march is done, the wonder of the starlit nights makes his past life seem still more unreal. It has been truly said that the solitary contemplation of the desert stars either for ever convinces a doubter of the certainty of a God, or confirms his opinions as an Atheist. When Michael was alone with the stars, the Sweet Singer of Israel's words ever rang in his ears:

"When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained;

"What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?"

During the three days spent on camel-back in the desert nothing had happened which the world calls happening. Michael's small equipment was proving itself entirely satisfactory and sufficient for his needs. His guide and his servants were both agreeable and obedient. His head-man or guide was none other than the soothsayer who had predicted the astonishing wealth of the tomb which Freddy had discovered. He had travelled far and wide in the great Arabian Desert and he had also helped at the excavations at Tel-el-Amarna.

Although apparently nothing had happened, no events which would bear recording in the diary of a practical explorer, yet much had happened which evaded the limitations of words. The things which had happened were the great things which mattered to Michael's mind. They had produced an extraordinary sense of repose; they had settled his nerves and allowed his convictions to steadily develop, to emerge from shadowy dreams. If he thought less constantly of Margaret as the days wore on, it was with more satisfaction and confidence. He ceased to blame himself for confessing his love; he accepted that also as an act of the guiding Hand.

On the desert march Michael generally went at the head of his cavalcade. He liked the wide sweep for the eye, the great expanse, undisturbed, even by such picturesque figures as the natives on their camels. Over and over again he rode for hours in a beautiful dream; he gave himself up to the intoxication of immensity. At such times the thought would come to him that if he turned the universe upside-down, nothing would happen. The high heavens would be made of golden sand and the limitless earth of bright blue—that would be all the difference; nothing would tumble about, for there was nothing to tumble; nothing would be standing on its head, for there was nothing which had a head to stand on. God's world was as it had been before the creation of man.

Since his Hijrah, as Freddy called his flight from the valley, he had ceased to think about his own standing on his head. He had accepted the fact that a man must work out his own life as truly as he must work out his own salvation. To be a weak copy of Freddy would be contemptible; it would be better to be an out-and-out failure and drifter for the rest of his days. As a failure he would at least be living the life he best understood, the life which to him seemed fuller than the lives lived by successful materialists.

For the whole three days in the desert he had scarcely passed a living creature; it was the most desolate journey he had ever taken. Some portions of the great desert are much more barren than others, more extraordinarily desolate. The whole thing, of course, depends upon the all-important water. One writer's words explain the matter concisely—"there are two kinds of desert in Egypt, the desert of sand, which is only desert because it is left without water, and the desert which is desert because nothing profitable will grow there."

Probably the country over which Michael had travelled belonged to the last type of desert. There had been wonderful effects of light and shade and strange changes in the colour of the sand and rocks, owing to geological reasons. Sometimes such strange effects that he found it hard to believe, from a distance, that there were not bright carpets or gay flowers spread on the sands.

To the uninitiated it sounds as if such a journey could become dangerously monotonous and boring, and so it would to the eye or mind which has not the true desert instinct. Michael's had it. He loved its passionate intensity of sky and space as a true sailor loves the ocean. He loved his "ship of the desert," which bore him silently over the rolling waves of sand, as a Jack Tar loves his ship. He loved the stories of the desert which his guide told him at night under the southern stars, as an English Jack Tar loves his fo'c's'e yarns.

Although nothing ever happened, there was for Michael something happening every minute, some fresh beauty which revealed a new phase of Nature, some geological surprise which changed the colour and atmospheric effect of his surroundings. At one time mirage after mirage appeared and disappeared like delicate, subtle dreams; fair cities sprang up on the horizon with white-winged sailing-boats drifting on their waters; tall palm-trees, black against the light, stood up and refreshed the eye, only to become fainter and fainter until they were no more.

These fair Jerusalems, God's help to tired travellers, with eyes grown weary of emptiness and space, made beautiful interludes in the day's march. Since their first day's march they had seen no real desert villages, with their much-treasured palm-trees and picturesque inhabitants, for they had made for the open desert. Where palm-trees grow, there are also human habitations and Government taxes. Anything green in the desert which is of lasting duration is the result of artificial irrigation. But if the sand brings forth no food for man or beast, its emptiness holds a world of prayers and desires.

* * * * * *

It was about noon of the fourth day of Michael's journey when he saw in the distance a cavalcade of camels riding towards him. It had emerged out of nothing; suddenly it became clearer and clearer. Was it mirage? It was still so distant that it might yet prove an optical delusion.

He stopped his camel. Abdul, seeing that his master evidently wanted something, rode forward quickly.

"Look, Abdul," Michael said, "can you see some camels coming towards us?"

Abdul had no need to look. His eyes could see much further than Michael's. He had already noticed the cavalcade.

"Aiwah, Effendi, they are camels carrying real human beings." His master's words had implied that he wondered if he was looking at a mirage. Michael had never seen a mirage of anything but scenery, villages with minarets and rivers with boats—reflections, in fact, of distant towns.

Abdul assured his master that the camels were real camels and that he was almost certain that it was an European outfit; it did not belong to desert natives.

Michael again rode on ahead for a few moments. He wondered where the travellers were coming from, and whither they were bound. This fourth morning's journey had certainly brought them slightly nearer again to the border of civilization. He knew that they were skirting an ancient oasis. Perhaps the travellers had come from it. He was still some distance from Tel-el-Amarna—not the modern Tel-el-Amarna or Haggi Kandil, which lies about five miles back from the banks of the river, where passengers travelling by railway alight when they come from Cairo to visit the ruins of the ancient city—but the ruins of Akhnaton's capital. At the point on the Nile where Akhnaton chose to build his city, the limestone cliffs go back from the river about three miles, returning to it some six miles further on.

Michael's objective was not the ruins of Akhnaton's city, but the desert and the hills which lie beyond it. The boundaries of the "City of the Horizon," Akhnaton's new capital, the seat of the heretic King, were so carefully laid down and defined by him that there has been no mistaking its exact size and circumference.

Michael was going to the original tomb of Akhnaton, cut out of the hills which formed a half-crescent round the city, like a bay, reaching back from the river. In these encircling hills the King's body was buried; the hills were his chosen resting-place.

"Here Akhnaton elected to be buried, where hyenas prowled and jackals wandered, and where the desolate cry of the night-owls echoed over the rocks. In winter the wind sweeps up the valley and howls round the rocks; in summer the sun makes it a veritable furnace, unendurable to man. There is nothing here to remind one of the God Who watches over him, and the tender Aton of the Pharaoh's conception would seem to have abandoned this place to the spirits of evil. There are no flowers where Akhnaton cut his sepulchre, and no birds sing; for the King believed that his soul, caught up into the noon of Paradise, would need no more delights on earth.

"The tomb consisted of a passage descending into the hill and leading to a rock-cut hall, the roof of which was supported by four columns. Here stood the sarcophagus of pink granite in which the Pharaoh's mummy would lie. The walls of this hall were covered with scenes carved in plaster, representing various phases in the Aton worship. From the passage there led another small chamber, beyond which a further passage was cut, perhaps to lead to the second hall in which the Queen should be buried, but the work was never finished." [1]

Later on, for political and religious reasons, his mummy was disentombed, taken up the river to the western desert and placed in his mother's splendid tomb in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings. It was in these same hills that Michael believed the King to have concealed his treasure.

The treasure was Michael's practical objective. To others the idea might seem absurd and unpractical; to him it was quite possible and practical. He could not have been more businesslike in his marching and halts if he had been a general taking his troops across the desert to relieve a beleaguered city. It was a part of his nature to be practical about the unpractical. The words of his old friend in el-Azhar often came back to him as his camel bore him through a spell of light, or as he listened to the thundering silence of the Arabian desert. He recalled his counsel, to journey undoubtingly, to follow in the steps of a "child of God," who would lead him to the treasure which no eyes had seen for countless centuries.

So far no child of God had crossed his path. From dawn until dusk he had seen nothing living or moving but one pale lizard, almost colourless as the rocks from which it had come; it had scurried across his path, the sole inhabitant of the untrodden sands, alarmed at the invasion of its kingdom.

These thoughts were passing through his mind as his camel bore him nearer and nearer to the cavalcade which was coming towards him. The unexpected sight of travellers had raised a whirlwind of new doubts in his brain and called up undesired visions before his eyes. For the last three days nothing had disturbed the divine calm of his desert surroundings. He had contentedly become a part of his camel; its somnolent tread had lulled his senses like the gentle movement of an ocean steamer on the high seas.

As the two cavalcades drew nearer to each other, Abdul pressed forward to his master's side. His long sight, well used to desert distances, had clearly discerned what to Michael was still indistinct, blurred by the sun.

"One lady in party, Effendi."

Michael showed surprise. It was an extremely unlikely place to meet a lady on camel-back; there were no tourists in that part of the desert, so far back from the Nile; it was not a likely place to meet an European pleasure-party. Michael knew that Abdul had meant an European lady when he spoke of "one lady" being in the party; he would not have mentioned the fact if it had been only a Bedouin Arab woman moving her home to some more desirable spot. Perhaps it was some excavation-party. A number of European women, he knew, were now engaged on archaeological work in Egypt.

As the distance shortened, he began to count the number of the camels. It was not a large equipment.

Quite suddenly the two leading camels of the approaching party strode forward, almost at a gallop, the curious gallop of fast-travelling desert camels. The next minute a clear voice called out:

"Hallo, good morning! Have you used Pears' Soap?"

Michael's heart stopped beating. It was Millicent's voice. For the sake of appearances he returned her greeting gaily, although his heart was filled with anger.

"No," he cried back. "But I've used desert sand, which the Prophet said does as well."

Millicent had tricked him, cheated him. She had discovered his plans; she had laid hers very cleverly so as to meet him on the most desolate part of his journey. A vision of Margaret's anger, had she seen her riding towards him, rose before his eyes. The tone of Michael's voice expressed something of his feelings; it made Millicent all the more daring.

"I arranged a surprise for you—wasn't I clever?"

"It is certainly a surprise," Michael said. "Where are you going?"

"Whither thou goest, I will go," she said laughingly. "Where do you suppose I am going?"

"This is absurd, Millicent!" Michael lowered his voice.

"Why absurd? The desert's big enough for us both, isn't it?"

"I should have thought it sufficiently big to have made our meeting unnecessary."

"Now, Mike, don't be an ungracious pig! Here I am and here I mean to stay. I won't bother you, so just be nice."

The mules and camels of both parties had met. The men had joined forces and much talking was going on amongst the natives.

"Have you come alone?" Michael asked.

"My dragoman is with me."

"Of course," Mike said. "I know that. But are you by yourself, without any other European?"

"Quite," Millicent said. "I didn't want anyone. Hassan's a reliable dragoman. I came to meet you."

"Do you think it was nice of you?"

"Well, no," she said. "Perhaps not, but it is nice for me, Mike, and it will be nice for you, too, if you will only be sensible and accept the situation."

"What do you mean by being sensible?" he asked.

"Just allowing me to come, and being pleasant and happy and enjoying yourself. I've everything I need—I won't ask you for a single thing but happiness."

"I shan't be happy—I wished to be alone. You knew it."

"What harm shall I do you? I'll halt when you halt, I'll go on when you go on. I'll be douce comme un lapin blanc—I really can be, Mike." Her eyes asked him if in that respect she was not speaking the truth.

"Yes," he said. "You can be anything you want to be." He sighed. "I wish you oftener wanted to be good, Millicent; I wish you oftener wanted to please me and not always only yourself."

"I'd get nothing if I did, Mike. I stole this march on you, half for fun and half because it's no use trusting to you. I never see you—you are afraid of yourself."

"I told you it was useless." He moved his camel further from hers. "I must see what is to be done. You must turn back. Your very presence disturbs all my ideas."

"The natives think this is a prearranged plan, of course. They give you the benefit of being more human than you are."

Michael looked at her in annoyance. He knew that she was right; he knew that even Abdul, the visionary, would not believe him if he told him otherwise; he knew that already he had formed his own opinion of Michael's surprise.

Millicent's veil almost completely hid her face. She flung it up over her sun-hat. As Abdul came to his master's side, Michael saw his eyes linger on the Englishwoman's beauty. He knew that to the Eastern, mixture of mystic and fanatic as he was, her freshness and fairness were like the scent of white jasmine to his nostrils.

This woman, who loved his master—for already Millicent's dragoman had confided her secret to him—was very rarely beautiful, and in his eyes very desirable; but she was false. His eyes had instantly seen beyond. Because she was false she interested him. She was not like other Englishwomen; she was not like the girl who was the sister of Effendi Lampton. This wealthy Englishwoman, whose body was as sweet as a branch of scented almond-blossom, had thoughts in her heart like the thoughts of his own countrywomen. In his Eastern mind, Englishwomen retained their virgin minds and ideas even when they were married women with families; to their end they retained the hearts and minds of innocent children. This slender creature, a sweet bundle for a man's arms, thought as his countrywomen thought. He saw into her mind as he had seen into the unopened tomb.

He was amazed at the Effendi, not because of this meeting with his mistress—it was not an unheard-of thing in the desert; he was not unaccustomed to the ways of men and women of all nations when their passions control their actions—he was amazed at his own false impression of Effendi Amory's character and mind. He had never for one moment contemplated such a contretemps; he would never have imagined that he could be false to Effendi Lampton's sister. The meeting, however, lent a double interest to their journey.

"The Effendi has been fortunate in meeting his friend," he said respectfully. Michael had turned to address him.

"Yes," Michael said. "We have been fortunate." He saw no other way of settling the question. For the present he must quietly accept the inevitable. Millicent had insisted that she had a perfect right to follow him, even if he refused to allow her to join his party.

"We will go on, Effendi? The Sitt will accompany us?" Abdul's voice was expressionless, deferential.

"For to-day, at least," Michael said, "the Sitt will travel with us." He knew that equivocation was useless.

Abdul searched his master's eyes. There was no love in them, no passion for the woman he had taken all this trouble and secrecy to meet. Englishmen were strange beings. Time would prove which way the wind of desire blew. Was it from the woman to the man or from the man to the woman? Had Michael the qualities of Orientals for dissembling his feelings? It was rare amongst Europeans.

The cavalcade moved on. A fresh element had been introduced into it. The at-all-times low talk of the natives soon became more obscene than it is possible for Western minds to imagine. Its influence affected the sublime silence of the desert. God no longer shadowed the distance.

Michael knew the native mind. He had heard the workmen at the excavation camp, and even the girls and women in the desert villages, discussing subjects freely and openly which to the Western mind are impossible. He had heard children and boys using language and ejaculations which would disgrace the lips of the most degraded Western.

Before Millicent's appearance his men had no doubt talked together in a way which would have shocked a stranger to the East if he could have understood what they were saying, but there had been an absence of any special topic; their talk had been impersonal. Now their interests were awakened, their lowest instincts were on the alert, their passion for intrigue whetted. Suggestion, like perseverance, can work miracles. With Millicent riding by his side and with the whole company of servants discussing their affairs, the desert had lost its purity, its healing powers. In its sands the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil seemed to need no water.

Michael clung to the thought of Margaret. For some few moments they rode in silence. Michael was inarticulate; his thoughts were like a flaming bush. In half an hour's time they would halt for lunch; until that time Millicent held her soul in patience.

Nothing was to be gained by a broken conversation on camel-back. A delicious excitement exalted her; her plans had succeeded; the very devil of insolence danced in her veins. She had trapped Michael and successfully outwitted Margaret Lampton. She was going to thoroughly enjoy herself. Michael, of course, would become quite docile in her hands later on; one of her gentle spells would reconcile him.

"How long have you been in the desert?" Michael asked.

"We've camped for two nights," she said. "It's been perfectly beautiful! We have had no difficulties, no adventures and we've scarcely met a living soul. This eastern desert is awfully desolate, Mike—you're alone with your thoughts if you can't speak to your dragoman."

"It's very desolate," Mike said. "And it's quite different from the Valley in colour and in feeling—at least it is to me."

"I think so, too. This morning we met a strange creature—the only human we've struck—one of those desert fanatics, 'a child of God,' as my dragoman called him."

Michael's heart beat faster; he forgot his annoyance. "Where did you meet him?" he asked.

Millicent noticed the change in his voice. "Not long before we sighted you. He was travelling this way—we shall probably pass him. Our camels were travelling at a good pace."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No, I couldn't, but Hassan did. I asked him about him. He told me that what we call an idiot or a village simple is really a man whose reasoning powers are in heaven. We see the material part of him, the part that mixes with ordinary mortals. To the Mohammedans such people are considered sacred, special favourites of God."

"Yes, I know," Michael said, "and the worst of it is that advantage is taken of that charming idea and dreadful things are done by rogues who pretend to be religious fanatics or holy men. Some of them are awful creatures, absolute impostors, but as a rule they frequent towns and cities. The genuine holy man, a 'child of God,' lives apart from his fellows in the desert."

"This poor creature wore a long cloak made out of all sorts of bits, a weird Joseph's coat of many colours. His tall staff was hanging with tattered rags and his poor turban was in the last stages of decay." Millicent's voice betokened genuine pity. "He looked terribly thin and tired. I ought to have given him some food—he wouldn't accept money. I don't think he grasped its meaning."

Michael's thoughts were busy. "A little child will lead you, do not despise the favoured of God—their wealth is laid up for them in heaven."

And so they journeyed on, Millicent pleased at the result of her conversation, it had set Michael dreaming.

"They have lots of beautiful ideas," she said. She meant Moslems generally, not only the simples or religious fanatics.

"Yes," Michael said. "No religion has more lofty or beautiful ideas and ideals."

"You don't think their ideas are often put into practice?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "It isn't fair to judge—the Western mind can't. Their ideas are beautiful and in obeying the laws laid down by the Koran they do beautiful and kindly acts; at the same time, their minds to us seem terribly polluted. Their religion doesn't appear to elevate their general aims or thoughts of life."

"But isn't it the same with the greater portion of Christians, with many of what we call religious people?" Millicent laughed. "I know it is with myself, Mike. I go to church and say my prayers and I think I believe in all the tenets of the Church and in the Bible—at least, I'd be frightened to not believe—and yet it doesn't make me feel a bit better. I don't really want to be good. I want to eat my cake on this earth and have it in heaven as well. All the nicest plums with you, Mike!"

Michael laughed. Millicent was always so frank upon the subject of her own worthlessness.

"We don't know what these people would be like if they had no Koran to curb them," Millicent said. "It may do more than you think. It's a strong bearing-rein."

"That's true. The Egyptians are, I suppose, about the most sensual of all Easterns—the women are considered so, at any rate, by Lane, and he knew them intimately."

Millicent laughed. "I'm sure they are, speaking generally—that's to say, I suppose you meet exceptions here and there, as in all other countries."

"The Prophet had his work cut out," Michael said. "And the world doesn't give him half the credit he deserves. The rules he laid down in the Koran are the only laws a Moslem really observes or reverences. His own soul teaches him nothing; it has been buried far too long by the laws imposed upon it; his superman is non-existent. The natural man blindly obeys the Prophet's teachings in the hope of the material rewards which will be his when he dies. The future life has always meant a great deal to the Egyptian peoples; their existence on earth has since time immemorial only been looked upon as an apprenticeship for the fuller existence. The very fact that their earthly homes, even the Pharaoh's palaces, were only built of sun-baked bricks made of mud, shows that they carried out in practice the saying in the Bible about having no abiding cities here. Their tombs were their lasting cities and they were built to endure throughout all eternity."

"Anyhow, they are delightfully picturesque people in their devotions," Millicent said. "I feel almost as pious when I watch a Moslem praying before sunset as I do when a boy's voice is reaching up to heaven in one of our Gothic cathedrals at home. I think I'm at my best then, Mike, only no one is ever present to test me."

Michael knew exactly what Millicent meant. The emotional side of religion excited her senses. She imagined, when she was listening to a boy's treble soaring up into the lofty heights of an English minster, that her soul was soaring with it, that she was deriving spiritual benefit from the service. He could picture her kneeling with folded hands, the polished nails conspicuously bright, and eyes upraised, listening to the boy's clear, pure voice, her whole being in a satisfied sensuous ecstasy.

He knew that this state of ecstasy was about as far as Millicent's religion ever carried her. She was afraid to give up the flesh-pots of this world in case she found life without them too dull to be supportable. She enjoyed her state of being so thoroughly that she had no wish to change it. Her religion and church-going were, she considered, sufficient to ensure her a place in heaven. It was her way of paying her future-life insurance policy, as were her many liberal gifts to charities.

When the halt for lunch came, Michael and Millicent were to all outward appearance good friends. Michael had been considering within himself what attitude he ought to adopt towards her amazing adventure, what face he should try to put upon their meeting. His knowledge of the East told him that it was probably best to leave things alone, for whatever he said Hassan and Abdul would put their own construction on the affair. During their conversation, which had been carried on without the slightest regard for Michael's annoyance at her appearance, his thoughts had been very busy. Their serious talk must come later on, when they halted for lunch.

Among the many things which troubled him, Michael tried to solve the riddle of how Millicent had gained her knowledge of his movements. Freddy's words had come back to him—that the fair Millicent had not come to their camp to learn of his engagement to Margaret! She had come to find out something which was more difficult to discover. Had she seen the servants in the hut and questioned them when she was alone there? Had she bribed Mohammed Ali? How otherwise had she found out all that she wanted to know?

When lunch-time came, Millicent's splendid basket, exquisitely furnished and equipped with everything that could be desired for an appetizing and original lunch, was opened, instead of Michael's, which contained the simple necessities of a desert outfit. They chose their halting place under the shadow of a mighty rock—they were reaching hilly ground. Millicent's outfit included a sun-shelter, which was quickly raised and in incredible shortness of time they were comfortably seated under it, on camp chairs at a camp table. Michael could not help showing his pleasure and admiring the dainty equipment. His child's heart was very easily touched and pleased. Nothing was left undone which could be done to give freshness and daintiness to the scene. A luscious fruit salad looked cool and tempting in a glass bowl, while iced drinks, which had been carried in ingenious Eastern water-coolers, appealed to his parched lips. The galantine of chicken and the selection of hors d'oeuvre would not have disgraced the table of the Cataract Hotel at Assuan. Here, indeed, were the flesh-pots of Egypt—la tentation de Saint Antoine.

Millicent noticed Michael's pleasure. It was expressive of his simple, open nature. In such moments he was very lovable.

"Now, isn't this nicer," she said, "than pigging it alone?"

"It's beautiful," he said. "What a wonderful outfit! How clever of you—I feel as if you had a magic wand."

"Hassan's a good man—I left everything to him."

"He's done it A1," Michael said, more coldly. Suddenly he felt annoyed, vexed with himself, for yielding so easily to the pleasures which Millicent had provided, anticipating the enjoyment he would derive from eating all the good things.

After three days' hard travelling in the desert and some days spent in economical living in Luxor, while his arrangements were being made, he was readier than he imagined for a good and delicately-appointed meal. Even at the hut he had never sat down to a lunch such as this. The renaissance of the old Adam astonished him.

The servants had betaken themselves to a sheltered spot; discretion being nine-tenths of a good dragoman's training, Hassan and Abdul saw to it that their master and mistress should not be disturbed, while they themselves remained out of sight, but within call.

"Let's sit down," Millicent said. "I'm starving—the desert turns me into an absolute primitive."

They sat down and while Millicent rid herself of her gloves; and sun-hat and veil, Michael remained lost in thought. How nice it was! As nice as anything could be, if . . . the "if" was subconscious . . . if he had only come on this journey into the desert to enjoy himself, if there was no Margaret. But there was a Margaret, and he adored Margaret, whose dear dark head and trustful eyes were ever present with him they were as present in the shelter as the golden head and the inviting, provoking eyes opposite to him. There never again would be for him a world which held no Margaret, nor could he endure it if there was. And yet her very existence robbed this desert feast of its flavour. He knew that to be loyal and true to Margaret he ought not to be accepting and appreciating the dainty lunch laid before him. He ought not to be eating it with the woman Meg detested.

What if Margaret knew? What if his practical mystic had already had a vision of their meeting? Had some native carried Millicent's plans to meet him to the Valley? Had the birds of the air brought the news to Freddy's ears? Was Margaret now tortured by a vision of this sumptuous desert picnic? Could she see him sitting alone with Millicent in her tent? He knew how mysteriously news travels in the desert, how quickly it journeys. A wave of anger flushed his face as he pictured to himself what Freddy would think of the situation.

His hands trembled as he took Millicent's dust-cloak and hat. She looked extremely pretty in her white muslin dress, which the cloak had hidden. Millicent mistook the meaning of his trembling hands. She had seen men's hands tremble many times.

"Our little home," she said, as she sat down at the table. "My desert dream realized. I'm so happy!"

"Why did you do it?" Michael cried passionately.

Millicent still mistook the nature of his emotion. She leaned across the table. "Don't ask, dearest—just rest and be content. Hand me the sardines, like a dear man."

Michael handed her the sardines. How could he just rest and be content? If he did, he would allow himself to drift into the woman's mood, he would be enjoying himself at the cost of his loyalty to Margaret. He would be drowning "the clear voice" with Moselle cup and smothering it with galantine of chicken and pigeon-pie.

"I want you to promise me," Millicent said, "just to eat this one meal happily with me, eat and forget. For half an hour or more don't ask me any questions and don't scold!" She handed Michael an olive in her fingers. "Open," she said. "They're so good."

Michael opened his mouth, but he took the olive from her fingers into his own.

"Will you do what I ask?" she said. "If you will, I'll promise to listen to you afterwards. Your conscience is an awful bore, Michael."

"I'm an awful bore apart from my conscience. It's simply your impish persistence that makes you desire my society. It can't be anything else."

"Perhaps it is," Millicent said. "All the same, will you promise?"

"Very well," Michael said. "That's a bargain. I promise."

"For this one meal you'll be like you used to be?"

"What was that?" he asked. Her words annoyed him.

"Mine," she said. "Mine and not Margaret Lampton's."

Michael put down his knife and fork and looked straight into the eyes of the woman opposite him.

"I am Margaret Lampton's," he said, "and you'd better know it. I'm Margaret Lampton's, body and soul." He flung her hand away.

Millicent gave a suggestive whistle. "Wh-o-o!" she said, with a low laugh. "So that's it?"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Nothing—I didn't say anything, did I? Oh, don't let's quarrel—let's enjoy our lunch."

"Very well," he said. "Let's, for time's flying. But it's best for you to know that I'm Margaret's."

"Never mind—lend yourself to me for a few days. Surely she won't mind if we amuse ourselves in the desert?"

"I'm not going to lend myself to you," he said. "What nonsense you talk! You're going back the way you came. You can play with someone else."

"You dear silly, you can't make me!" Millicent laughed at the idea. "Besides, you know you want me all the time, and you've just promised to enjoy this jolly little meal and to lecture me afterwards. I'm not going to be unhappy because you belong to Margaret Lampton."

"So long as you know I do," he said, "I feel I can eat your excellent lunch."

"And if Margaret doesn't know, what can it matter?"

"Oh, Millicent!"

"You know, Mike, it's what's found out that matters. If you enjoy yourself and make me happy for two or three days in the desert and Margaret never knows, what harm could it do?"

"If you can't see the harm for yourself," he said, "I can't show it to you."

"Well, I can't," she said. "But let's talk of something else. Margaret is taboo—she's spoilt half our lunch."

"First tell me how you got here, how you knew of my movements. I spoke of them to no one."

"No, no, that also is taboo—until after lunch."

"What can we talk about?"

Millicent looked at him. Her eyes suggested another topic—themselves. "Is that taboo as well!" she said, as Michael's eyes dropped under hers.

"Absolutely," he said.

"Happy idea!" she cried. "The tomb! If we mayn't talk of Margaret or of our two selves or of how I got here, or of whence I came or whither you are going, surely a tomb is a safe topic?"

"Yes," Michael said, "if any topic is safe with you."

"Ah," Millicent said. "That's the nicest thing you've said."

"I didn't mean to be nice. What's nice in that?"

"But you were nice, awfully nice. If there are so many danger-zones to be avoided between us, you don't feel very safe, very sure of yourself. That's triumph number one for Millicent; Margaret's lost one point already."

"I thought Margaret was taboo?"

"Oh, so she was—I beg her pardon!" She sighed. "'One word is too often profaned for me to profane it,' etc." She put her elbows on the table. "Oh, Mike, aren't you an odd darling? I do love teasing you. If you weren't so easily ragged, I wouldn't."

"Do go on with your lunch," he said. "And don't chatter so much. We only have a certain amount of time for lunch and digestion. This pie's delicious."

"Where are we going? When do we go on?" Millicent was not oblivious of the fact that he spoke of their going on as an accepted fact.

"So you don't know? You haven't found out everything?"

"No, I knew enough to bring me to you. That was all I wanted. You can tell me the rest."

Michael was silent.

"My dear man, you needn't tell me if you don't want to, but remember that no secrets are hid from the hand that hath baksheesh. I found out what I wanted to know; I can find out more."

"I'd rather you found out," he said, "than I told you."

"Right ho! Funny man!"

"Do you want to hear about the tomb, or don't you?"

"Oh, yes, rather!" Millicent's teeth were busy picking the leg of a pigeon. "Tell me everything."

Michael told her everything he could remember, the things which he knew would interest her, the most personal facts relating to the minute examination of the tomb. It was proving a great puzzle to Egyptologists. There were many conflicting theories about it—whether the mummy which was found on the floor beside the effigy of the dead queen was the mummified body of the queen or not. It had been sent away to be carefully examined by experts; the report of the examination had not yet been made known. If it was the body of the queen, why had they endeavoured to cut off the golden wrappings which had been rolled round her body? Why had her name been roughly cut out of the inside of the coffin? Why had this queen, who had been buried with such royal magnificence, been "debarred from all benefits of the earthly prayers of her descendants? Why had she become a nameless outcast, a wanderer unrecognized and unpitied in the vast underworld?" [2]

These questions had not yet been solved. Millicent was excited and interested and Michael enjoyed telling her about it. She was inquisitive and insistent. She wanted to know all about the doings in the camp since her visit to the Valley, and Michael thoroughly enjoyed talking to a sympathetic, intelligent listener. Like all Celts, he had the gift of words.

He was so engrossed that Hassan appeared with their coffee long before he was ready for it or expected it. Noticing his surprise, the man instantly took his cue. He salaamed respectfully in front of Millicent.

"Ta, Sitt," he said, "will it please you to wait for another hour? The camels are not yet rested, the day is still young."

Millicent looked at Michael. Time really did not matter to him one scrap, yet she dared not hint so. He could just as well look for this phantom treasure a year from now. It was all a mystic's mirage to her, a delightful excuse for a sojourn in the outer desert.

"I'm ready if you are," she said, addressing Mike. Her woman's tact told her the wisdom of putting no hindrance in his way.

"If the Effendi will graciously consent, it would be wiser to remain here for one hour more," Hassan said. "The men are tired, also."

Michael assented. If the beasts and the men were tired, they would wait. The excuse was not unwelcome. The good meal had relaxed his energies. Hassan thanked him and silently disappeared.

Michael sipped his coffee; it was perfect. He lit a cigarette, after they had turned their chairs to the open front of the shelter. Presently Millicent slipped down from her chair and sat on the sand in front of the tent; there was more air. Soon Michael did the same.

They had lunched well and were friends. A certain delicious apathy stole over Michael, which kept him from referring to any unpleasant topics. He left alone the subject as to why Millicent had trapped him and forced her company upon him. For the time being she was good and gentle, the reason being that she also was relaxed and inert—the result of a good meal after a strenuous morning on camel-back.

Michael had been riding since dawn. The temptation to let things alone was an unconscious one; he submitted to it.

A great expanse of the desert was before them. Millicent lay curled up, like a golden tortoise-shell cat, in the sun; Michael, with his legs doubled up to his chin, rested his head on his knees. He would have been asleep in a few minutes if Millicent had not spoken; suddenly she said:

"Look! Surely that's my holy man, whose reasoning powers are in heaven? There, look—far away, over there!"

Michael raised himself and looked to where she pointed. There was nothing to indicate any particular spot in the stretch of sand before them.

"I can just see the tattered rags of his staff. I'm sure it's the same man. Can't you see him?"

Michael looked again. "I can only distinguish something moving in the distance. I can't say what it is, or if it is coming this way."

"Can't you see a thing like a flag fluttering in the air? I can—there, can't you see him now?"

"Yes, now I can," Michael said. He got up from his low seat, his energies fully alert, his drowsiness gone. He held himself in check. It was absurd to appear so interested in a desert-fanatic—or an idiot—coming across their path. They were both common enough occurrences in the East.

Millicent watched his face. Why was he so thrilled, why so interested? Michael's first impulse was to go and meet the man. He was afraid that he would not notice their encampment. He was afraid that he would not come their way. At the same time, he was conscious that if there was any truth in the old man's words, their meeting would come about naturally and not by his seeking. The "child of God" would find him out.

They waited for some time and nothing happened. Michael's hopes abated. The figure with the fluttering rags disappeared. It seemed as if it had vanished into the sands. Michael felt disappointed.

The shelter was taken down and packed up, the lunch-basket refilled and the camels harnessed. Hassan appeared.

"Ya, Sitt, all is ready."

Nothing had been said about Millicent's plans; nothing had been said about how she had contrived to meet Michael; no lecture had been delivered. The subject had been forgotten, forgotten by Michael at least, whose interest had been absorbed in the talk about the tomb and in the glimpse he had of the distant figure. Millicent had not forgotten the promised lecture, but it had been her object to make Michael forget it. She had gladly let the matter rest. Why wake sleeping dogs? She let them lie so undisturbed that not one bark had been heard. They slept so soundly that her heart was full of triumph and amusement when, seated on her camel, she took her place in Michael's cavalcade.

She had managed to get through the starting without his feeling any annoyance at her presence. He had simply forgotten his objection to her accompanying him.



[1] Weigall's Akhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.

[2] Weigall's Akhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.



CHAPTER II

It was not until their rest at sundown that anything of unusual interest happened to the travellers. Their short halt while they drank their tea had passed without incident—in fact, Millicent had drunk hers alone on camel-back, for it had been carried in thermos flasks, their Amon-Ra, as Hassan called the magic bottles whose contents retained the heat with no obvious aid.

Michael had spent the time, while he drank his refreshing cup, in consulting Abdul about their route. The camels were not unsaddled. About this Millicent made no demur. She saw no earthly reason why they should not have rested for as long as they felt inclined, but she did not say so. If this treasure which Michael sought had lain in its safe hiding-place, out of sight of man, for more than two thousand years, why should it not wait there in safety for another couple or so of hours? This she kept to herself; it was her wise policy to remain douce comme un lapin blanc, which she did. The night might still see her an accepted part of Michael's cavalcade. The adventure thrilled her with excitement.

They had finished their evening meal, which Millicent had supplied—a very satisfying and delicate dinner. They had eaten it in the open desert during the cool hours which precede sundown. Michael had thoroughly enjoyed it. The evening light transformed the desert; a heavenly Jerusalem seemed very near. Even Millicent was obedient to the unseen.

As the sun sank lower and lower in the heavens, their conversation drifted towards the subject of Akhnaton's Aton worship. The kneeling figures of the Arabs, praying in the desert before sundown, had introduced the topic.

They sat on until the globe of gold dropped behind the horizon—a wonderful sight in the desert. For a minute or two its sudden and complete disappearance leaves the world chill and desolate; a cold hand clutches at the human heart; a loneliness enters the soul. God has abandoned the world; the warmth of His love becomes a memory.

* * * * * *

The afterglow was at its most flamboyant; its orange and yellow, streaked with black, suddenly became vermilion. Lights from the underworld struck across the desert like swords of fire; arms of flame broke the vermilion, soaring to heaven like the fires from hell's furnace let loose. The anger and beauty and recklessness was appalling. Then with magic swiftness, during the flickering of an eye, the horizon became one vast lake of sacrificial blood.

The transition was so unexpected, so devastating to the human mind, that fear filled Millicent's heart. Instinctively she had drawn a little closer to Michael. She craved for arms to guard her, to protect her from the terror of the heavens.

* * * * * *

Like a black silhouette against the lake of blood, a human figure rose up out of the desert, a John the Baptist, "a burning and shining light," a voice calling in the wilderness.

As the sonorous words of the Koran were borne to them, Millicent said, "Oh, Mike, it's my holy man! How mysterious he looks against that wonderful sky!"

Subconsciously Michael had been so grateful to Millicent for her silence during the stupendous glory of the sunset that his heart was full of gentleness towards her.

"Yes," he said. "I see him." Something had told him that the figure which she had described to him during luncheon would appear again; he was not surprised when he distinguished the staff, with its tattered rags waving against the crimson light.

"Isn't it all wonderful, Mike!" Her voice was reverent; the awfulness of the heavens had humbled her. "I was almost afraid—it seemed like the end of the world, the sky seemed all on fire. The destruction of the world had begun."

"'Thy setting is beautiful, O living Aton, who guidest all countries that they may make laudation at thy dawning and at thy setting.'"

"Are those Akhnaton's words?"

"Yes, and his constant song was, 'O Lord, how manifold are Thy works.' Most surely he would have said so to-night." Michael's thoughts flew to the morning at whose dawn he had first recited to Margaret Akhnaton's hymn to the rising sun.

Millicent did not guess that Margaret was present while they stood together in silence, watching the blood tones grow fainter and fainter.

As they stood looking towards the horizon until all violence had left the heavens, the desert figure drew nearer. Millicent knew him by his long, unkempt hair. Even at a distance his fine white teeth gleamed against his tanned skin.

"He's a mere skeleton," Millicent said. "Look at him! He's all eyes and hair and teeth!"

"Poor creature!" Michael said. "He has certainly no flesh left to subdue."

As they spoke, the fanatic suddenly tottered, strode forward and fell, face downwards, on the sand of the desert. Instinctively Michael hurried forward to his assistance. There was little doubt but that he was famished and exhausted for want of food; the distances between desert villages are immense.

"Don't go!" Millicent cried. "Don't, Mike! He's probably filthy and crawling with vermin; he looked awful this morning. I'll send two of my men to him and I'll tell Hassan to prepare some food for him. Hassan! Hassan!" Her voice was clear and far-reaching.

Abdul instantly appeared. Hassan was busy giving orders to the men for pitching the tents. So quickly did Abdul come that he might have sprung up out of the desert at her very feet. This immediate response to her call always made Millicent suspicious of eavesdropping.

"Abdul," she said, "the holy man we met this morning is ill. Tell the bearers to go to him—don't let the Effendi touch him, Hassan."

"Aiwah, Sitt, I will attend." With the same breath Abdul screamed for two of the men to come and help the saint. They came with flying leaps towards him.

"Mike, oh Mike!" Millicent cried. "Please, please come back! You are so rash. Abdul, don't let the Effendi touch that man. He's filthy. I saw him this morning—he's a dreadful creature."

Abdul looked at the Effendi Amory's mistress, the Christian harlot. Such a woman dared to speak in this manner of one who was favoured of God, a blessed saint, of one to whom the devout women of his country would willingly give themselves as an act of grace! This child of God, beloved of Islam, was filthy in her vile eyes!

It was in this manner that Millicent unconsciously earned the vengeance of Abdul. Nothing of his hatred or scorn was noticeable. Millicent was under the impression that all Easterns are sensualists and slaves to beauty; she was ignorant of their profound contempt for all women; that their vilest thoughts are for Christians. With an outward approval of her anxiety that Michael should run no risks by touching the sick man, Abdul left her and hurried after the Effendi.

But Michael had already reached him; the fleshless figure lay bathed in the dying light of the afterglow. Hanging round his neck, a neck which looked like the neck of the dried mummy in Freddy's wonderful tomb, there were many strings of cheap beads, and suspended from a bright green cord—the Prophet's green—was one white cowrie shell. Half covered by his garment of many colours, and jealously enclosed in a small black cloth bag, was the most precious article of his scanty possessions. Michael knew that this pouch contained nothing less valuable than a few grains of sand from the Prophet's tomb at Mecca.

At Michael's approach the fanatic raised himself and recited in half-delirious tones the Fat'hah, or the opening chapter of the Koran:

"In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Gracious. Praise be unto God, the Lord of the worlds, the Merciful, the Gracious, the Ruler of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, upon whom there is no wrath, and who have not erred."

When the sura was finished the man fell back; his strength failed him. Michael knelt down beside him in the desert. He raised his head; his wild eyes and emaciated face touched his heart. He knew something of the zeal of these religious Moslems, these desert sons of Allah. This man had obviously wasted himself to a skeleton. Truly, his reasoning powers were in heaven; his religious ecstasies had well-nigh bereft him of his senses.

Michael asked him if he was ill or if he was only faint from want of food. The saint did not know; physical exhaustion overpowered him. At intervals he called loudly upon the name of Allah, in almost the same phraseology as the ancient Egyptians called upon Amon-Ra, the Lord of all worlds, whose seat was in the heavens. In the unchanging East, expressions never die. Akhnaton taught his disciples to pray to "Our Father, which art in Heaven."

As Michael listened to his appeals to Allah, he felt totally at a loss to know what to do for the material benefit of the zealot. He was afraid that he would die from exhaustion. He was relieved when Abdul and the bearers came to his assistance. Abdul soon persuaded the man to drink some of the water which he had brought in a cup. As he did so, he noticed with satisfaction that the saint's head was resting on Michael's arm, that his master was totally self-forgetful in his act of charity. Christian though he was, he was sincerely obeying the teaching of the Prophet Jesus, the one sinless Prophet of Islam, the Prophet Who, next to Mohammed, is best beloved of the faithful. Mohammed considered Jesus sinless; to his own unrighteousness he often alluded. In this act of grace, at least, the Effendi had not failed Him.

When Michael offered the man another cooling drink, he swallowed it eagerly. It was like the waters of paradise to his parched throat. His flaming eyes tried to express his gratitude to his deliverer. Who was this heretic whose fingers had the gift of healing, from whose heart flowed the divine waters of charity?

Michael understood. Inspired by the love in his heart for all suffering humanity, with something akin to the graceful imagery of words which comes naturally to the humblest native's lips, he spoke to the man in a suitable manner. Rendered into English it would sound absurd.

The servants appeared with some food which was sustaining and appetizing, but the effort necessary for swallowing anything solid proved too much for the exhausted pilgrim.

"Bring him to the camp, Abdul," Michael said. "I will give him some brandy. As a medicine it is not forbidden?"

"No, Effendi, it is not forbidden."

The total absence of the sun had made the desert seem inhospitable and dreary. The saint was too weak to protest and so he was carried to the camp. Millicent watched the slow procession with anger and amazement. She knew that Michael was rash and impetuous, but she had not given him credit for being such a fool.

While he was being put to bed in a tent, and carefully attended to, Michael tried to discover if the saint was really ill, if he was suffering from some specific malady, or if he was merely worn out with fatigue. He administered a drug to him which he hoped would soothe his nerves and allow him to sleep.

In a dog-like manner the man's tragic eyes eloquently expressed both his astonishment and gratitude. It was long since he had slept in a comfortable bed, under sheets and blankets. He rarely spoke, except to mutter or loudly chant in a half-delirious manner suras from the Koran.

When Michael had attended to his simple wants and seen to it that his servants were not only willing but eager to nurse him, he left him to their care and immediately hurried off to his own tent to change his clothes and disinfect himself as thoroughly as possible—a necessary precaution, although the man had not been as dirty as Millicent had depicted. His dilk, or Joseph's coat, was indeed tattered and his turban in the last stages of decay, but they were clean. His person was not offensive. A pathetic figure, fleshless and worn and neurotic; yet in the sands of the desert he had performed his ablutions before prayer, as prescribed by the Prophet in the Holy Book. The untrodden sands of the desert are as cleansing and purifying as the waters of Jordan.

When Michael at last returned to Millicent, she said quite gently, although her inward woman burned with anger, "Mike, are you mad or a saint? How could you touch him?"

"I'm far from being a saint!" he said.

"You are as much one as that wretched creature, who has pretended he is one for so long that he now believes he is."

"Or his Moslem brethren do, perhaps you mean!"

"Well, he acts up to their superstitious ideas."

"I can't tell. He is too ill to speak. He is probably as sincere a Moslem as St. Jerome was a Christian—why not?"

"What's the matter with him?" A little fear clutched at Millicent's heart.

"I don't know—Abdul couldn't discover. The man is too exhausted to talk. I'll speak to him in the morning and find out."

"I hope it's nothing infectious—you were very rash, Mike!"

"It's probably only physical exhaustion. He couldn't eat anything, but he drank the water I gave him. I poured a little brandy in it—he wouldn't have touched it if he had known."

"Oh, wouldn't he?" Millicent's voice expressed her disbelief.

"The Koran forbids the drinking of spirits."

Millicent laughed. "You wouldn't think so when you pass the native cafes in Cairo! I thought you said they lived up to the letter of their religion, and missed the spiritual essence of it?"

"There are Moslems and Moslems. Do we all live up to the spirit of Christ's teachings? Have you always seen Christ-like Christians?"

Millicent shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I don't pretend to live up to the spirit of my religion. There's the comforting reflection of a death-bed repentance for all Christians—it's never to late to mend, Mike!"

"What about battle and murder and sudden death?"

"I take that risk. But, honestly, dear, are you going to adopt that fanatic, take him on with you?"

"I'm going to look after him until he's better," Michael said, "if that's what you mean."

"You've got one protege in el-Azhar. I wonder where this one will find his home?"

"He will be all right in the morning. Some food and sleep will set him on his way again." Michael's eyes expressed the fact that his thoughts had travelled to Millicent's own position in his camp. She had wished to avoid this; she had tried to obliterate her own personality. Her desire was to let Mike get pleasantly accustomed to her companionship, to her place in his camp, to her harmless presence. She felt certain that if she could manage it for a day or two, he would let things slide. It was his nature to drift.

The evening was almost at its close; night was drawing near. The evening star, with its one clear call, had appeared in the pale sky, guarded by the soft pure crescent of a new moon. The single star in the vast heavens made a tender appeal to the hearts of both Millicent and Michael. It intensified their solitude. It touched their senses with longing. If Margaret had been with Michael, his arms would have encircled her.

Millicent owed her self-restraint to her calculating common sense. To have had a lover on such a night as this would have been a splendid reward for all her trouble. In her heart she called the man at her side a fool, a pitiful fool, and herself an idiot for loving him.

"It was a beautiful idea for Mohammed's banner," Michael said at length. He had driven the thought even of Margaret from his mind. Suggestion is too potent a drug.

"Was that what he took it from?" Millicent said. "I never thought of it before—of course, it must have been."

"He must often have watched the evening star as we are watching it now, when he was a boy living in the desert. Later on, when he became the warrior prophet, he must have visualized the heavens as the background of his banner, and taken the evening star and the crescent moon as his symbols—the star and the crescent of Islam." Michael paused. "In the same way, the full rays of the sun became the symbol of Aton, Akhnaton's god and loving father."

"Your friend?" Millicent said eagerly; it pleased her that Michael should speak of the things nearest his heart. He was allowing her to approach him.

Michael laughed. "And yours, too, I hope?"

"Why?" Millicent's heart quickened.

"Because Akhnaton was the first man to preach simplicity, honesty, frankness and sincerity, and he preached it from a throne. He was the first Pharaoh to be a humanitarian, the first man in whose heart there was no trace of barbarism." [1]

"Really?" Millicent said. Michael's earnestness forbade levity. "How interesting! Do tell me more about him."

"He was the first human being to understand rightly the meaning of divinity."

"But what he taught didn't last. We owe nothing to his doctrines, do we? Did it ever spread beyond his own kingdom?"

"Like other great teachers, he sacrificed all to his principles. Yet there can be no question that his ideals will hold good 'till the swan turns black and the crow turns white, till the hills rise up and travel and the deeps rush into the rivers.' That's how Weigall ends up the life he has written of the great reformer. How can you say that we owe nothing to him? You might as well say that we owe nothing to any of the great men of whom we have never heard, and yet you know that thought affects the whole world. Akhnaton made himself immortal by his prophecies—they were the eternal truths revealed to him by God."

"By a prophet, do you mean that he was a prophet like Moses, Jeremiah, Isaiah and so on?"

"I mean that prophets were the seers to whom God communicated knowledge. Prophets were the people to whom He made revelations; he enlightened their minds; He certainly revealed Himself to Akhnaton, or how else could he, in that age of darkness, have evolved for himself an almost perfect conception of divinity? Weigall says 'he evolved a monotheist's religion second only to Christianity itself in its purity of tone.' If God had not revealed Himself to Akhnaton as He did later on to Moses and Abraham, and as I believe He still does to our true reformers, how could he, as Weigall says, have evolved his beautiful religion 'in an age of superstition, and in a land where the grossest polytheism reigned absolutely supreme'?"

"And are you now on your way to visit his tomb, Mike? How thrilling!"

"Yes," Michael said. He answered her simply, forgetful of the fact that she could only have obtained her information on this point in an underhand manner.

"You know where it is?"

"He was buried in the hills which lie beyond his city."

"Tel-el-Amarna?"

"Yes, the City of the Horizon, the capital he built when he found it necessary for the progress of his new religion to get away from Thebes, from the priests of Amon-Ra."

Michael's thoughts became absorbed. They travelled to the mid-African in el-Azhar and then became mixed up with this meeting with the desert-saint. Could this poor, emaciated figure, so shrunken and worn with tropical fevers and famished for want of food, have any knowledge of the hidden treasure which the seer had visualized?

Millicent allowed his thoughts to wander. She knew the force of silent companionship. She knew that, although he was apparently far from her, he was conscious of her presence. She would have liked to ask him a thousand questions, to have talked rather than held her peace; but her instinct as a woman forbade it. Something told her that during their talk Michael was one half saint, one half man, and the man-power was stronger than he knew.

Many stars had appeared in the sky, which had deepened. It was now the violet-blue of a desert night. The passion of the heavens was beginning. Could man and woman remain outside it?

In the distance an occasional roar from one of the camels interrupted the silence. Surely it was a night for love, the love that needs no telling?

Millicent and Michael were seated on the sand, gazing into the deepening heavens. Michael was sorely disturbed.

"Could anything be more Eastern?" Millicent said dreamily. In speech she had to walk very carefully. Her mystic baffled her.

"Nothing," Michael said. "Isn't it sad to think what city-dwellers miss?"

"I love even the roar of the camels, don't you?" Her eyes were looking at the animals, as they knelt at rest in the distance, their long day's journey done. What stored-up revenge their roars suggest! They always seem to say, "My day will come, if it is yours to-day."

"Let's think of the most English thing we can, Mike," she said suddenly, "just by way of contrast."

They thought for a moment or two in silence. The arid desert was softened by the absence of the sun, its desolation was made more manifest. At night even more than by day, you could feel the immensity of its distance, its silent rolling from ocean to ocean. Nothing speaks to man's heart more eloquently than the voice of perfect silence.

For the sake of prudence Michael was consenting to Millicent's suggestion to think of the most English scene he could. Was it a village public-house, full of hearty English yokels, drinking their evening tankards of beer? This was about the time they would assemble. He had not yet formed his picture into words, Millicent had not spoken, when suddenly Abdul appeared and begged permission to speak to his master.

The sick man was better; he had eaten some food and was conscious. Abdul had evidently some information which was for his master's ear alone. He politely inferred that he could not say it before the honourable lady.

Michael rose from his seat beside Millicent, who, being wise in her generation, said: "Then I will say good-night and go to bed. I am very tired."

"Good-night," Michael said brightly, while a sudden sense of relief came to his heart. "I think you are very wise. You must be quite tired out."

"So far, so good," Millicent said when she was alone. "What a weird mystic I've attached myself to!" She alluded to Michael, not to the Moslem saint.

Her camp-outfit was so complete that in her desert bedroom there was scarcely an item missing which could ensure her comfort. She contemplated going to bed with enjoyment. Where money is, there also are the fleshpots of Egypt, even if it is in the waterless tracts of the Arabian desert.

Material comforts meant very much to Millicent. She enjoyed using all the little accessories belonging to a fastidious woman's toilet; she enjoyed, too, the occupation of expending care on her person. Her rising up and lying down were ceremonies which she performed with unremitting attention. In her tent in the desert her perfumes and cosmetics and bath-salts afforded her a curious satisfaction. They told her that her management had been perfect; they appealed to her barbaric love of contrasts. It fed her pride very pleasantly to know that she could command these luxuries; to know that by her own wealth she could bring the trivialities of civilization into the elemental life of the desert excited her senses.

Her natural beauty could have triumphed over the ravages made by the sun and the dry desert air. She was one of those fortunate women who needed few, if any, of the absurdities which she carried about with her wheresoever she went. To have done without them would have been to deprive herself of a very genuine pleasure, to have starved one of her eager appetites. Margaret's rapid tub, the swift brushing and combing and plaiting of her dark hair, generally while she read some passage from a book which interested her, and her total disregard for cosmetics, would have horrified Millicent if she had known of her habits. The height of civilization to Millicent was expressed in a luxuriously-appointed dressing-table and in an excessive care of her body. Progress touched its high-water mark in the perfection of her creature comforts. Taken from this standpoint, progress could scarcely go any further, or so Michael would have thought if he had watched her ritual of going to bed.

She dawdled pleasantly through it, enjoying every moment of the time, appreciating the handling of artistically-designed silver objects, performing with care the washing of her face with oatmeal and the dusting of her fair skin with the latest luxury in powder. She liked to take the same care of her person as a young mother takes of her first baby, and—as she expressed it—to smell like one when the ceremony was finished.

Her love of contrasts appealed to her, when she stood, all ready for bed in her foolish nightgown—a mere veil of chiffon—becomingly guarded by a Japanese kimono of the softest silk. She visualized the timeless desert outside her tent, the trackless ocean of silence, the uninhabited primitive world. She felt like a queen, travelling in state through a waterless, foodless world.

She held up her empty arms. Some other night! Some other night! Her heart assured her. With a sigh of content she lay down to sleep, well satisfied with her own diplomacy and cunning. Her last conscious thoughts were of Margaret Lampton. What was she doing to-night? What were her thoughts?

* * * * * *

Late that night, as Abdul passed the Englishwoman's tent, he spat at her door.



[1] Weigall's Akhnaton, Pharaoh of Egypt.



CHAPTER III

What was Margaret doing that night?

Many days had passed since she had heard from Michael, but there was nothing in that to cause her anxiety. She did not expect to hear from him after his desert journey had begun, except by happy chance. If he passed a desert mail-carrier, he would give him a letter to be posted when he arrived at the nearest town.

A desert mail-carrier is a weird object to Western eyes or to the eyes of a city-dweller. Almost naked, he travels across the desert on swift camels, carrying a long sword for the protection of the royal mails.

So far Margaret had received no desert letter. Her days had passed smoothly and swiftly, for Freddy had kept her hard at work. Each day her interest in his work intensified; the more she learned of Egyptology and of archaeology generally, the more wholly absorbing it became. She had developed into a very essential member of the camp.

With splendid common sense and determination, she had succeeded in throwing herself body and soul into the work which filled her days. She had made up her mind when she parted with Michael that not even by thought would she retard his work and mission. When she allowed her mind to travel to him, it was to convey currents of stimulating love and encouragement. If thoughts are things, as he always told her, then the things her thoughts were to give him must be happiness and confidence. Keeping this steadily before her, she had spent healthy, happy days with her brother. In their sympathies and interests they had drawn even closer together. Strangers might well have taken them for lovers, so eagerly did they look forward each morning to their long evening to be spent together. There was very little time for play; their days were made up of hard, exacting work.

Experts were busy forming their opinions and writing their official reports upon the contested subjects connected with the tomb. The mythological and archaeological finds in it were of exceptional interest.

On this night, when Millicent in the eastern desert had held up her arms to the heavens and questioned the unseen, Margaret had gone early to bed. For some reason—perhaps owing to the great heat of the day and to the airlessness of the chamber of the tomb where she had been painting, she had felt a bit "nervy," as she had expressed her state of being to Freddy. She had tried to read, but had failed. Her thoughts had wandered; her memory had retained nothing of what she had read; at the end of a paragraph she knew as little of what it had been about as though she had never read it. Concentration was beyond her power.

"I'm only wasting time, Freddy," she said after a last desperate effort to concentrate her thoughts on her book. "I'm going to bed. If I talked, I'd probably grouse—that's how I feel."

"Right you are, old girl. I'll soon be off, too. How'd you like to go to Luxor for a few days?"

"Oh, no, Freddy!" Meg's whole being rejected the idea.

"All right—only don't get the jumps."

"A good sleep will put me right," she bent her head as she passed her brother and lightly kissed his glittering hair. He was busy with a plan, of extraordinarily minute details. "You're such a dear, Freddy."

"Rot!"

"You are, a thumping old dear."

"Don't you worry, old girl. Mike's all right. Bad news travels on bat's wings, so they say. You'd have heard long before this if anything was wrong."

It was just like Freddy to understand. Meg felt cheered. She sat herself down beside him, quite close to his elbow, and watched him for some moments. They were perfectly silent. Freddy's practical, healthy, buoyant personality soothed her. Her big love for him brought a sudden lump to her throat. Happy tears dimmed her sight. Hungrily she pressed his arm close to hers and rubbed her cheek against his coat. The next moment she had left the room.

Freddy's eyes followed her. "Not the life for a girl, somehow," he said, a line of worry puckering his forehead, and for a few moments his thoughts deserted his work. It became faulty; he had to use his india-rubber over and over again. It was Meg's vision of Akhnaton that had intruded itself upon his work; he must drag his thoughts back again.

Meg had told him about her vision. Before the tomb had been opened, Freddy would have completely pooh-poohed the whole thing. He gave no real credence to it now; still, there was a subtle difference in his attitude towards the whole subject of the supernatural. His mind did not so completely reject it as he thought. The extraordinary exactness of the seer's vision of the inside of the tomb had not been without its effect. He also knew how constantly and ardently Akhnaton had prayed that his spirit might "go forth to see the sun's rays," that his "two eyes might be opened to see the sun," that he might "obtain a sight of the beauty of each recurring sunrise."

* * * * * *

When Meg went to bed, she slept soundly, very soundly. She must have been asleep for some hours when suddenly she awoke with unusual alertness. The intensity of her dream had wakened her. She had heard Michael's voice crying, as though it were vainly trying to reach her. It was as clear as the overseer's whistle each morning; it had wakened her just as suddenly. The anguish of his soul came to her out of the silence. Three times he had called her distinctly.

She started up, with the words "Yes, Mike, I'm coming." They were said before she realized that she was separated from him by the Valley and the river and the eastern desert.

Sitting up in bed she listened. Everything was still. She jumped out of bed and looked out of the window. The stars in the sky shone down on the hills which covered the sleeping Pharaohs as they had shone when Michael had told her that he loved her, as they had shone before the Valley became a city of the dead.

Margaret slipped on her dressing-gown and opened the door. She went quietly out and stood in front of the hut, with eyes raised to the heavens. She felt as if her heart was bursting with the prayers that filled it. What could she do? Nothing—nothing but give herself up to God, open her heart and reveal its burden to the Lord of all worlds, trust her inarticulate prayers to His everlasting mercy. Very softly she whispered, almost ashamed of her own impotence, "I want to go to Michael. Allow my spirit to console him."

Her hands were clenched. An imploring agony held her unconscious of all else but her desire to get outside herself and appear to her lover. She had no more words; speech was needless. Her wants were as infinitely beyond the limits of speech, as infinity is beyond our conception of space or time.

For a few minutes she stood lost in the one thought. And who shall say in what name her prayer was answered by the divine mercy?

Gradually a subtle untightening of her muscles relaxed her hands even while they remained folded. Something had gone out of her. Was it virtue? Unconscious of her material self, for her thoughts had not yet returned from their mission of healing, she remained standing in the same attitude of appeal.

Suddenly her imagination folded her in her lover's arms. She heard him say, "My beautiful Meg, the stars adore you!"

And she answered, "I am with you, Mike, just as I was on that night when your love made a new world for me. You called to me and so I came. Your arms are round me. . . . I can hear your voice."

Margaret sighed. Consciousness of her material surroundings was returning. She heard a step behind her; someone was present. It was Freddy.

"What are you doing, Meg?" he said anxiously.

She turned swiftly to him. "Oh, Freddy, Michael wanted me. My dream was too real not to have some meaning. I couldn't bear it—I had to try to help him!"

"You were dreaming? You were in bed?"

"Yes, and sound asleep. Suddenly he called me. It was extraordinarily real." Meg put her hands up to her head as though it was tired.

"But you can't help him by standing out here. It's too chilly."

Meg shivered. "It is cold," she said wearily. "And I'm awfully tired."

Freddy linked his arm through his sister's. "Let's sit and talk together indoors, for a bit. Have a cigarette?"

Meg thanked him with tired eyes. Freddy put his hands on her shoulders as she sank into a deck-chair, and looked into her eyes. "No more visions, old girl?"

"No, Freddy, oh no, no vision." Meg spoke dreamily, absently, and with an exhaustion which worried her brother.

"Then why so tired?"

"I don't know. I suppose it was my dream. I feel as if I'd travelled for days and days!"

"Look here, you're going to have some of this." Freddy poured out a small portion of brandy into a glass and made her swallow it. "The desert plays the dickens with the strongest nerves. Don't be so rash again, Meg."

"I promise." Meg swallowed the brandy and Freddy lit her cigarette. With a tact she little dreamed of he contrived to divert her thoughts into a channel far removed from the eastern desert and personal matters.

The news from home for the last few weeks had been far from satisfactory. English politics seemed to revolve round the atrocious acts of the suffragettes who believed in the militant policy and the disturbances in Ireland. Freddy's sympathies, of course, were with Ulster; the Nationalists and Sinn Feiners belonged to the unemployable unemployed class of agitators who "walk on their heads."

When at last the brother and sister parted, Meg was restored both in mind and body to her normal healthy condition.



CHAPTER IV

When Michael entered the sick man's tent, he was surprised to find how much better he seemed. He had regained a little strength and partial consciousness. But he was still weak and suffering from the effects of malarial fever, or so Michael imagined, though he was articulate and his mind seemed to be clearing.

The more Michael saw of him the more sure he was that he was neither an idiot nor a lunatic, nor one of the class in the East whose flagrant acts of immorality do not affect their fame for sanctity. Certainly his thoughts and reasoning powers appeared still to be in heaven, but that was because he was a religious zealot. Of the genuineness of his piety there could be no doubt. The impostors and charlatans who bring discredit upon the term "holy man," who trade upon the credulity of the natives, do not seek the wastes of the arid eastern desert. The neighbourhood of hospitable villages and cities suits their profession and tastes better.

The saint had requested of Abdul that he might thank the Effendi for his charity. Before sunrise he wished to leave the tent.

As Michael approached him, he called out in a weak but sonorous voice a sura from the Koran:

"'Verily those who do deeds of real kindness shall drink of a cup tempered with camphor.'"

The word camphor (kafier), which is derived from the word kafr, means to "suppress or cover." Michael understood. The quaffing of camphor, as spoken of in the Koran, is supposed to subdue unlawful passions; it cleanses the heart; it rids man's mind of all material desires.

"I thank you, O my father." Michael used the ordinary form of a Moslem in addressing one of a higher spiritual station than himself. In Egypt even the native Christians reverence Moslem saints or holy men. They pay frequent visits to them to ask for counsel and to hear their prophecies, to beg a hair of them in memory, "and dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue." Any relic of a venerated saint is worn as a protection from evil.

Quite apart from Michael's feeling on the subject as to whether this desert fanatic would prove of any real assistance to him on his journey, he had no inclination to scoff at his religious zeal. Were there not St. Jeromes, who lived in the desert and trusted to the ravens of the air to feed them? Were passions in the desert not known before the days of Mohammed? Why should saints no longer exist?

It seemed to him very wonderful that this semi-conscious Arab should have chosen a text from the Koran so singularly appropriate to his condition. There were hundreds of suras familiar to Michael, relating to the benefits to be received by the faithful who performed disinterested acts of charity. "Do good to the creatures of God, for God loves those who do good." These words came to his mind as more suitable, as referring only to his hospitality to the fainting wayfarer. Or again, "The truly righteous are those who, in order to please God, assist their kindred out of their wealth, and support the orphans and take care of the needy, and give alms to the wayfarer."

In the moral conditions of the Koran, there are many suras relating to charity, the love which covers a multitude of sins. Yet he had told Michael that because of his love for one of God's creatures he would "drink of a cup tempered with camphor." Had the sick man a seer's vision? Had he read the secrets of his, Michael's, heart?

Or might it have been that already Abdul had confided to him the gossip of the camp? Had his seer's eyes told him who lay in the white tent, the white tent whose open door so persistently invited him to turn in?

He rejected the idea that the saint's apt choice of a text could have been mere accident. To Michael there was no such thing as chance. Nothing is unessential, nothing unforeseen by the All-seeing.

He spoke to the saint seriously and sympathetically of his condition and tried to persuade him that he was too weak to travel. He must rest for one whole day, and after that he must allow Michael to see him on his journey. To Michael's offer of hospitality and help on his pilgrimage, he again answered by quoting the Koran:

"'Verily to the "favoured of God" no fear shall come, nor shall they grieve.'"

His eyes, lit with spiritual fire, expressed his complete confidence in divine protection.

Michael expressed his belief that God did look after those who were specially favoured of Him, but he asked if it might not be that it was by God's guidance that he, Michael, had been permitted to offer one specially beloved of Allah the rest he so greatly needed? If it was not also decreed by Allah that the saint should remain in his tent until he was stronger?

"Whither are you going, O my son? If Allah wills it we shall not part."

Michael described his geographical destination; he did not mention the real mission of his journey.

"What seek you there, O my son?"

"The tomb of a holy man."

"An infidel or a child of Allah?"

"Of a prophet, O my father, a prophet to whom God revealed himself even before the days of Moses, a prophet born in Egypt, who lost his distant kingdoms to gain his own soul."

"Your heart is full of charity, O my son. In the name of the Lord, the Compassionate, the Merciful, may the divine light surround you."

"If I acknowledge but one God, O my father, and truly love Him, I must love all things that He has created, for without Him was not anything made that is in heaven or on earth."

"Truly said, O my son. And praise be to Allah! you are no infidel. You worship but the one God Who is the Lord of the worlds. The ignorant infidels—Allah have mercy on their souls!—give the Prophet Jesus equal glory with the God Almighty, they divide the honours which belong to God alone."

"There are many seekers after the truth, O my father. Are there not many roads to heaven?"

"To all who do truly seek the light, God will be revealed to them. He will cover them with His mercy, He will join them to the companionship on high. God's mercy extends to every sinner, He provides for even those who deny Him."

The fanatic fell back on his pillow exhausted. Michael waited for a moment, until his religious excitement had abated. Feebly words came from his parched lips.

"Great is Thy Name, great is Thy Greatness. There is no God but Thee."

Michael poured a little moisture down his throat. He swallowed it eagerly; his thirst was pathetic. After waiting for a few minutes beside the silent figure, Michael rose to go. One of the servants must come and look after him and watch by him during the night; he was too ill to be left alone.

Suddenly the saint called to him. "Hena (here)." He wished Michael to bend his head nearer to his lips; his voice was weak. His splendid eyes glowed with the fire of spiritual triumph. Michael watched him raise his hand up to his head. It was for some reason, for it was not without effort that he guided his first finger to his fine, delicately-shaped ear, the concha of which was very large. There seemed to be something hidden in it which he was endeavouring to take out.

Michael tried to help him. Had he stowed away some relic of exceptional value in the opening of his ear, or was it giving him pain? The saint did not answer. Michael stood in silence until the thing was extracted. It was a little pellet of tissue-paper.

The saint put his finger to his lips, to caution Michael to be silent. With trembling fingers he unwrapped the tiny packet. It was so small that probably it contained an atom of hair reputed to have been cut from the Prophet's beard.

When the object was unrolled, the saint said, "Hena," and tried to reach Michael's hand. Michael placed his right hand in the two emaciated ones of the fanatic. Something hard was pressed into his palm, and his fingers were jealously folded over a tiny object. When it was safely in his keeping, the saint fell back on his pillow, muttering a sura from the Koran.

"'Give your kindred what they require in time of need and also to the poor and the traveller, but waste not your substance wastefully.'"

Michael opened his hand and looked at what the zealot had placed in it. He was thrilled with curiosity to see what the precious relic could be. He recognized the greatness of the honour which had been bestowed upon him.

When he saw what it was, he was too astonished to speak. Wonder robbed him of words. A crimson amethyst, uncut and of ancient smoothness, lay like a large drop of blood in his hand. With half-believing eyes he gazed at it. Still in silence and with doubting senses, he turned it over with the fingers of his left hand. Had the holy man performed a miracle? How could he have become possessed of an ancient gem of such rare beauty and size? Michael had often seen conjurers raise up palm-trees and flowers on the deck of a steamer, out of a pot full of sand; a wave of their magic wand had transformed the deck of the steamer into a flowery garden. But this poor sick wanderer was no trickster.

Michael held up the amethyst to a lamp. It seemed to him a stone of great value. As it was uncut, he could only judge by its colour. There might be some flaw which he could not see. He tried to put it back into the sick man's hands.

"Keep it, my son, it is safer with you. I could not use it for the benefit of mankind, for the wayfarer and the needy, and for myself I have no wants which Allah in His mercy does not supply. His children suffer no greater privations than they can bear."

Michael still pressed the jewel back into his hand. He could not and would not accept it. At his refusal the fanatic became excited and distressed.

"It is easy for me, my son, to find many more such jewels, and also much fine gold, the pure gold of Ethiopia. Allah has had hidden treasures laid up in the desert for such of His favoured children as require them."

The words came curiously to Michael's ears, for he had in his subconscious mind anticipated them. Yet his material mind regarded them as fantastic imagination due to the man's abnormal condition. The unpolished jewel had probably been given to him by a devout Moslem, who imagined that he had derived some benefit from a visit which he had paid to the saint. His subconscious mind pressed the question:

Had this poor creature, dressed in rags, whose famished body had fallen in the sands, exhausted by his perpetual mortification of the flesh, found Akhnaton's buried treasure? Had he resisted the gold and precious jewels which he had found there? Had he only carried away this one crimson amethyst to prove to Michael that his theory was correct? Was it a beautiful link in the long chain of ordained events, an act of the divine law?

The idea seemed incredible. Yet the saint had spoken simply and sincerely, as if he never doubted but that Allah, in His all-seeing mercy, had provided this mine of wealth for the use of His favoured.

Was this gem which the saint had carried in his ear an actual and tangible proof of the treasure he was seeking? Had the saint actually seen and touched the wealth of gold and the jewels which Akhnaton's hands had hidden in the hills near his tomb? Others besides Michael, students of Egyptology, had treasured the idea that the heretic King, knowing that his days were numbered, and that when he was dead everything in his fair city would be stolen and desecrated, taken to Thebes and there turned into wealth for the gods of Amon, had hid from his enemies his private hoard of jewels and gold.

A glorious excitement overwhelmed Michael. His thoughts travelled on the wings of light. But he must be practical; he must determine how it was best to question the saint, to gather from him the most helpful information on the subject. It would be no easy matter, for it would be unwise to express any marked curiosity about the hidden treasure or to show his personal desire to find it.

With great self-control he concealed his intense interest and excitement. For the present it was best to let the saint's words about the treasure pass unquestioned. Very tactfully and with gentleness he persuaded him to keep the amethyst until they parted. In the morning, if he was really strong enough to go on his way and if he still wished him to accept the gem, he would do so.

With this the fanatic was contented. He wrapped up the gem which had once belonged to the heretic Pharaoh, whose one and only God was Aton, and replaced it in its strange jewel-case.

* * * * * *

When Michael left the tent where the saint lay, he turned his back on the encampment. He wished to be alone. His thoughts were bewildering. He turned his back upon the encampment because the crouching man in him knew that in the camp was the white tent of the woman. If he passed it, would the primitive man in him spring up and force him to turn in?

"Turn in, turn in, my lord, and he did turn in." How the words had kept ringing in his ears.

Alone in the desert he must drink of the cup tempered with camphor. Henceforth his one thought and object must be the finding of the treasure he had journeyed thus far to discover. The saint's news had so excited him that he wished that he could waken all the sleeping servants and order Abdul to begin their journey. Action would drive the white tent and its persistent call out of his mind. The sky was so light that they could easily see to travel.

His nerves chafed at the unnecessary delay. And yet he must not hurry, for his mind foresaw great difficulty, even in the matter of persuading the holy man to travel with them.

The seer at el-Azhar had promised him that a "child of God" would lead him. If he waited and trusted and just let things take their course, all things would come right. Haste comes of the devil—a true Eastern proverb, a warning far too little regarded by the Western children of speed. But his conscience rebuked him. Had he verily been one of those who do deeds of real kindness? Was he worthy to drink of the cup tempered with camphor? Had his deed been sincerely inspired by disinterested love towards his fellow-beings? Had it not been so mingled and mixed up with his anxiety to find the hidden treasure that he had gladly seized the opportunity of offering help to the wayfarer, hoping that he might prove to be the very child of God who was to guide him to the secret spot?

Yet surely, in doing this deed of kindness, even though it was affected by self-interest, he had already drunk of the cup tempered with camphor? The desires of his frail human flesh, desires which had had their renaissance since Millicent's appearance, were they quite banished? Had the woman in her white tent meant nothing to him? As if in contradiction to his words, he flung himself on the sand. A voice cried within him.

What was he to do with the woman? Oh, God, what was he to do with her? Spiritually he emptied his arms of her and flung her far from him on the sands. All day her presence had been too near him—oh, God, far too near! She was there in her tent, a beautiful vision. Her eyes, as violet as the night sky, invited him. Her voice, soft with love, wooed him. It cried again and again: "Turn in, my lord, turn in!"

His knowledge of the East told him that the whole camp expected him to visit the white tent that night. He was no St. Anthony in their eyes, resisting his temptation.

For one moment his mind enjoyed the satisfaction of her beauty. The cup tempered with camphor was rudely dashed from his lips. Some unseen hand had offered him instead the deep red wine of passion. With the sudden violence of a southern wind gathering swiftly over the desert, his emotions were tossed and driven. As the sands lift and rise from the flatness of the desert into one obliterating column before the traveller's eyes, so had his vision of the woman obliterated every other thought from his mind. In the limitless desert there was nothing but the one white tent of the woman.

In his vision he saw the crimson amethyst hanging from a chain round her neck. On her white breast it lay like a full drop of pigeon's blood. Where had this idea come from? Unsought, undesired, what had forced it with merciless vividness before his eyes? What part of him responded to her caresses of thanks? What had Akhnaton's jewel to do with his profane vision?

St. Anthony had never deserved his temptation less. With the distant glimpse of the white tent which he had caught on his way from the sick man, desire had stormed the citadel of his soul. Its hidden forces had surprised and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Michael. It held him in its grip.

In his agony of spirit he cried aloud. "Margaret! Margaret! Margaret, if you love me, come to me!"

He pressed his body more closely to the desert sand. Let the great Mother Earth enfold him.

With all the stars in the heavens shining down upon him, and the clear sky purifying a world of desolation, Michael lay purging his mind, cleansing his heart. The white tent became very distant, a mere speck on his mental horizon.

Suddenly his senses became alert; he felt a presence very close to him. No footfall on the sand had warned him that he was no longer alone; he was simply conscious that some one was standing by his side. He jumped up, anxious to see who it was; he had been lying face downwards on the sand. No one was there. He listened. Surely he had not been mistaken? Someone had touched him gently with their hands, some presence had come quite close to him. He was conscious that a feeling of peace had come to him, as if virtue had passed into him from those unseen hands. Then suddenly he knew that Margaret was beside him; they were standing together as they had stood together on the night when they plighted their troth. He could hear her saying, "I have come to you, Mike. You called me and so I came." He could feel the divine beauty of her passion, the exquisite wonder of her love. Her presence was as real and helpful to him as though his arms encircled her material body.

In the midst of his happiness a sense of shame overwhelmed him. Margaret had come to him because she understood; his sense of shame evoked her sympathy. He heard her say, "But Mike, I shall understand. I think something outside myself will help me to understand."

He could see her starlit face. He remembered how he had turned it up to the heavens and said, "You beautiful Meg, the stars adore you!" His own words rang in his ears.

She had come to help him to make his love for her still more complete. She was with him still. He enfolded her in his arms and wept out his passion on her breast.



CHAPTER V

"Let's begin where we left off yesterday, Mike," Millicent said.

They had finished their lunch and were sitting in the desert watching the "common or garden" day's idleness of the inhabitants of a Bedouin camp. The tents were huddled together under the shade of some feathery-leaved palm-trees, a typical desert homestead.

They had made a short excursion from the site of their own camp, for the sick man's condition had necessitated their halting for at least one whole day.

Subtly conscious of the fact that Satan finds some mischief even in the desert for idle hands to do, Michael had suggested a picnic to a small oasis which lay to the west of their route. Millicent and her dragoman and her servants still formed a part of his camp; her splendid supply of food and medicines was so valuable for the saint that Michael's silent consent to her presence had been given. Again he was drifting.

"Let us return to where we left off yesterday," referred to her suggestion of the evening before that they should tell each other of the most English thing they could imagine, things seen in England as in comparison to things seen in Egypt.

It was a typically Eastern scene which lay before them—the yellow sands of the Arabian desert, the dark palm-trees and the picturesque Bedouins idling under the shelter of the palms. Not one of the group was occupied. Some goats and a great number of naked children were lying about on the sand. The purple shadows of the palm-trees intensified the bareness of the sunny desert.