Guardian of the Horizon (9 page)

As he stood watching the loading, Ramses was conscious of what his mother would have called a hideous premonition. He knew what had caused it. There were too many people--the wrong sort of people--preparing to board Farah's wretched vessel. The scene was familiar to him: porters trotting back and forth with their heavy loads, their half-naked bodies gleaming with sweat. Their complexions ranged in color from pale brown to deep black, and their features showed the mixture of races found in the region-- Arab and Bagheera, Dinka and Shilluk. A few women were present, carrying trays of fruit and trinkets they hoped to peddle to the travelers. Some wore the enveloping black burka, but most of them were unveiled, their bodies--more or less--covered with strips of bright fabric. One bare-breasted damsel whose hair was interwoven with gold coins caught his eye and smiled. He knew better than to return the smile. Not with his mother ten feet away. Normal, all of it. What wasn't normal was the fact that the would-be passengers were not locals. One group of four were talking loudly in German. Another man, obviously English, wore military uniform. Then the premonition focused onto someone who was pushing through the crowd. He stepped back, stooping a little in the hope that Newbold wouldn't see him, hoping even more that the hunter didn't intend to take the boat. It was a forlorn hope. Newbold started toward the gangplank. He had to stop to let several porters come down, and then Ramses caught sight of the woman who was with him. She had stopped when he stopped, a little behind him, her head bowed. It was covered by a loose scarf which she had drawn across her face. Newbold held her arm in a grip firm enough to wrinkle the fine linen fabric of the robe that concealed her body from throat to ankles; they were slim, brown ankles circled with heavy gold bands hung with coins. Her wrists and slender fingers were also ringed with gold. The porters dawdled, in no hurry to pick up additional loads. Newbold cursed their slowness, and the woman let out a little cry of pain and let go her scarf in order to tug at the fingers squeezing her arm. Not a woman--a girl, surely no older than sixteen. He had expected that, from the delicacy of her bare ankles and the slender curves molded by the hot wind against her linen garment--and by his knowledge of Newbold's tastes. But he hadn't expected a face of such sweetness, her lips gently curved, her dark eyes enhanced by long lashes and winged brows. He wasn't aware of having moved until he stood beside them. "Let go of her," he said. Newbold gave an exaggerated start of surprise. "Oh, it's you. Is the rest of the family here?" "I told you to let her go. You're hurting her." "Am I? Oh dear. I certainly didn't intend to. Sorry, Daria. This is young Mr. Emerson, the famous Egyptologist." She looked up at him from under her lashes and smiled. Ramses took off his hat. "Salaam aleikhum, Sitt." Newbold's grin broadened. "Your mum would be proud of your manners. She speaks English. Answer the gentleman, Daria." "Good morning, sir," she murmured. "Pretty creature, isn't she?" Newbold ran a possessive hand over her sleek black hair and played with the end of her veil. "I bought her in Khartoum." Ramses knew the man was goading him, but he didn't entirely succeed in hiding his disgust. Newbold howled with laughter. "Just a joke," he sputtered. "Slavery is against the law. You don't suppose I'd break the law, do you? Her dad and I came to an agreement-- with her consent, of course. Isn't that right, Daria? You wanted to be with me." Face calm as that of a lady saint in a painted icon, she nodded, and responded, unresisting, to the pressure of Newbold's hand as he guided her up the gangplank. Newbold's complacent grin filled Ramses with impotent fury. Slavery was against the law, but there was no interfering with the old tribal customs, which included arranged marriages and the sale of women by the men who owned them. The girl took this for granted, he reminded himself; perhaps she had gone uncomplaining to the effendi who had loaded her with ornaments. And perhaps the compliant father had been one of Newbold's fabrications. Her origins might have been less innocent. There was something about the way she moved, hips swaying and little feet stepping daintily . . . And she certainly knew how to use those wide dark eyes.

It took the rest of the day to load our boxes, so we were not able to get off until the following morning. By that time Nefret and I and two of the crewmen whom I had commandeered had cleaned out the worst of the dirt in the three minuscule cabins that had been assigned to us. Our fellows would have to sleep on deck with the crewmen, but Selim assured me they did not mind. That evening we dined on board, in what Farah proudly referred to as the saloon. It was spacious enough, though the windows had obviously not been washed for months. I got out the serviettes I had brought, since I assumed (correctly) that Farah would not think of supplying them. Most of our fellow passengers were present. One was a youngish fellow in uniform, who was not, for a change, an old friend of Emerson's. He knew us, though, and after he had introduced himself as Captain Moroney, returning to his post at Berber after a few weeks' leave in Cairo, he reminded me that we had met once before. "No reason why you should remember me, ma'am," he said modestly. "I was assistant to the veterinary surgeon at Sanam Abu Dom, back in '98. You were good enough to advise him about treating the camels. Quite a coincidence that we should meet again in the Sudan." "Isn't it," I said, and left him to Emerson. Four of the others, two married couples, were tourists, though they would have disdained that description. Male and female alike, they were amusingly similar in their looks: the ladies had shoulders almost as massive as those of their husbands', and all four faces were wrinkled and brown from frequent exposure to the sun. Frau Bergenstein merrily informed me that they called themselves the wild birds, for they "flew" to the farther reaches of the world. They had climbed Mount Kenya, crossed the Negev by camel, paddled dugout canoes down the Niger to the Atlantic, and searched for the tomb of the Queen of Sheba in Ethiopia. I fully expected shewould mention Zerzura, but she did not, so I left her to Ramses, at whom she had been rolling her rather protuberant eyes. We were about to settle down to the meal when another passenger entered. He had a neatly trimmed grizzled beard and a frame almost as muscular as Emerson's, though he was not so tall. Emerson let out an oath at the sight of him, and Ramses turned rudely away from Frau Bergenstein. He came straight to me and bowed. "I have not had the privilege of meeting you, Mrs. Emerson, but I am acquainted with your husband and son. Newbold is my name." "I have heard of you, sir," I said stiffly. "I don't doubt you have." He smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes multiplying. "But I hope you will not be prejudiced against me by anything your son may have told you. Mr. Emerson, I am happy to have this opportunity to express my regrets for my ill-chosen words at our meeting in Cairo. I had--I am ashamed to admit it--I had taken too much to drink. Intoxication is not usual with me; in my profession, it is a danger one cannot afford; but when I return to civilization after months of privation, I occasionally celebrate too well. Accept my profound apologies." "That depends on what the devil you are doing here," said Emerson. It was the same thing I had wondered about, but Emerson does not always have the sense to keep his thoughts to himself. The statement was, in my opinion, unnecessarily provocative, and I attempted to mitigate its effect. "He is on his way back to central Africa, I presume. Is that not the case, Mr. Newbold? Another safari to arrange?" "Precisely, Mrs. Emerson. It is still early in the year, but I am expecting a group of gentlemen from England in two months' time. I have some . . . personal business to carry out before I meet them in Cairo." Ramses's tight lips parted. "Isn't the young lady dining?" "As a proper young Moslem lady, she prefers to dine in our cabin," Newbold said smoothly. "Naturally I respect her wishes." Ramses did not reply; after a moment Newbold went to take a seat at the far end of the table. "Curse it," said Emerson. "Has the bastard got a woman with him? What's she like, Ramses?" "Young" was the curt reply. "Pretty?" Nefret asked. "Yes." "Shameful," I declared. "Perhaps if I were to have a word with her--" "Leave it alone, Mother," said Ramses. "She's no helpless innocent." "How do you know that?" Nefret demanded. Color rushed into her cheeks. "Have you met her before? Surely you didn't--" "Encounter her during one of my frequent visits to the Cairo brothels?" Ramses snapped, his face as flushed as hers. "No. And I didn't try to seduce her either, if that's what you meant." "For pity's sake, Ramses, lower your voice," I exclaimed. "You too, Nefret. I cannot understand why you are both getting so worked up. Nefret, your implied accusation was unjust, as you must be aware. Ramses, you ought not have let it upset you. You know she didn't mean it. Apologize, both of you." As usual, Nefret was the first to respond. She was quick to lose her temper and just as quick to repent--whereas the reverse was true of Ramses. He sat with his head bowed, refusing to meet Nefret's eyes. She put her hand on his. "I do apologize, Ramses," she said sweetly. "It's just that I get so angry about the filthy game of prostitution and the poor women who are forced to practice it. I was lashing out at random--not at you, my boy." "I beg your pardon for being unable to tell the difference," said Ramses. "Ramses," I said warningly "It's all right, Aunt Amelia, it was my fault," Nefret declared. She gave his taut, unresponsive hand a little squeeze. I couldn't help wondering what the girl had done to crack that impenetrable self-control of his.

After dinner his mother convened an emergency council of war. Ramses had thought he was the only one to question the presence of so many unusual passengers, but he might have known his mother would be equally suspicious. "Any or all of them could be following us," she declared. "It looks as if we must go on to Meroe after all." "There's no doubt in my mind about Newbold's intentions," said Emerson, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "He's after us, all right. What precisely did he say to you that day at the club, Ramses?" Ramses had no choice but to repeat the conversation in its entirety. His hearers reacted precisely as he had expected, but once Emerson had got over his outrage at Newbold's implications about Nefret ("You didn't punch him in the face? Why the devil not?"), he was able to bring his keen intelligence to bear on the more dangerous implications. "Between what he picked up at Wadi Haifa and what he undoubtedly learned in Cairo, he's got enough--by his filthy standards--to justify following us. He won't get far," Emerson added smugly. "I have a plan--" "I trust," said his wife, giving him a baleful stare, "that it does not involve putting Mr. Newbold in hospital. You could get yourself in serious--" "Kindly refrain from interrupting me, Peabody," Emerson growled. "If worse comes to worst I would have no compunction about--er--temporarily immobilizing the fellow. But I do not believe it will prove necessary." "What about the girl?" Nefret asked. Her only reaction to Newbold's insult about her had been a shrug. "Why would he bring her along?" "To satisfy his own filthy appetites," said Emerson, with a snap of his teeth. He was only partly right. Ramses was reading in bed later that night, or trying to; the lamp flame swayed distractingly with the movement of the boat. The soft creak of a hinge made him look up; and he saw the door of his cabin open, just enough to allow a slim, dark form to slip through. He jumped up, dropping the book. "What are you doing here?" "What do you suppose?" She closed the door and came toward him. She wore only a simple shift, sleeveless and low cut, and she had left off her bangles and head scarf. Her hair fell in jetty waves over her bare shoulders. Ramses snatched up the shirt he had tossed over a chair and put his arms through the sleeves. "If he learns you have come here, he'll kill you." "He sent me." She stopped a few feet away. A flood of fury and disgust choked him for a few seconds. "I see." "Let me stay--for an hour--or two. Then I can go back and tell him I did my best, but failed." He tried to control his anger. It wasn't her fault, but at that moment he was almost as furious with her as with Newbold. "Let me get this straight," he said softly. "He told you to offer yourself to me in exchange for information about our plans. And you agreed?" The contempt in his voice brought a dark flush to her face. "I had no choice. I have told you the truth, instead of the story he ordered me to tell--that I fled from him because he was drinking and would have hurt me. I was supposed to plead for your protection, and embrace you, and . . ." She looked very young and helpless and desirable with the warm lamplight stroking her slim curves. Newbold had selected precisely the right woman to appeal to his protective instincts--and to the others that might have succeeded them if he had taken that slender, trembling body into his arms. Because he was fighting those instincts, he spoke harshly. "What makes you suppose I won't accept the offer and give nothing in return? I don't babble to the women I take to bed." The color in her face deepened. "You may believe me or not. I have told you the truth." "Wait," Ramses said, as she turned toward the door. Curiosity and a shamed consciousness of his cruelty had replaced anger. "I'm sorry. Sit down--over there, in that chair. You didn't have to tell me. Why did you? Sit down, please. I won't touch you, I promise." He perched on the edge of the bed, as far from her as he could get. She studied him thoughtfully and then a curious little smile curved her lips and she did as he had asked. "You don't have to stay with him," Ramses said. "My parents will help you." "To find a respectable husband, or become a servant?" The pretty mouth hardened. She looked, suddenly, a good many years older. "I have my own reasons for staying with Newbold. He is not unkind. When he twisted my arm today it was to get your attention." "I had already deduced that," Ramses muttered. She went on in the same detached voice. "I told you the truth because you would not have believed the lie. You are already suspicious of him--as you should be." "Who are you?" Ramses demanded. "You're no village maiden. Where did he find you?" She rose, tossing the black locks back from her face in a movement as graceful as it was practiced. "It has been long enough," she said. "He won't doubt that you refused me. He said you might take me because you are young and--how did he put it . . ." "Never mind," Ramses said, feeling his face heat up. "But he considers you weak and a naive romantic, as he expressed it. So he will believe me. Will you tell your parents?" "What?" The question caught him unawares. So Newbold considered him a weakling, did he? "Yes, I shall. Don't go yet. You haven't answered my questions." She moved with quick grace, reaching the door before he could rise. She looked back at him over her shoulder, frowning a little. "You wanted me, I could tell. Why did you refuse? Were you afraid of your mother finding out?" "That's right," Ramses said wearily. His other reasons would have made less sense to her. She was out the door before he could stop her. Just as well, he thought wryly. Newbold hadn't been so far wrong, damn the man. He had to tell his parents, but the very idea made him cringe; for it would mean admitting that his first, unthinking assumption had been based on a contemptible combination of male ego and physical desire. Nefret would certainly spot that, even if his parents didn't. He felt his face burning and picked up his book, but it failed to distract him. Her English was excellent and her appearance extraordinary. Where had she come from? There was European blood in her veins--or Persian, or Circassian. And was the "true story" only a subtler lie?

FOUR

The government steamers take two days to cover the stretch between Shellal and Wadi Haifa. It took us four. However, the region through which we passed was fraught with interest, and the prevailing north wind was pleasantly cool under a shaded awning. Without entering into details which the majority of my readers would find tedious as well as extraneous, I should explain that the area had been called by a number of different names over the centuries: the Land of the Bow, Cush, Nubia, the Sudan, to mention only a few. The Meroitic civilization flourished in southern Nubia after the fall of the earlier Cushite kingdom at Napata. Ruins of all periods abounded, for the conquering pharaohs of ancient Egypt had been succeeded by kings of Napata and queens of Meroe, and by Greek and Roman invaders; Christianity had raised its churches and Islam its mosques. Sitting on deck, we studied them through field glasses and Emerson mumbled discontentedly. "There'll be nothing left of them in another century, Peabody. Those villains at Aswan keep raising the water level." Additional entertainment was provided by bits of the boat falling off. Obviously this was not an unusual occurrence, for the crewmen remained unperturbed as they retrieved (most of) the bits and tied them back on. On one occasion we came to a dead halt in the middle of the river and it required some brisk steering by Farah to keep us from going aground while the engines were being repaired. Selim, who could not keep away from machinery of any kind, assisted in the repairs. He came back to us shaking his head in mingled horror and admiration. "I do not know how this boat has stayed afloat," he declared. "The engine is held together with wire and rust." Even this somewhat alarming encounter did not bring two of our fellow passengers on deck. According to our captain, they were missionaries, on their way to the southern Sudan. Wingate, the governor, had wisely restricted the ardor of these individuals in the Moslem areas, for Islam does not take kindly to proselytizers. Denizens of the "pagan" areas farther south were fair game, however, and it was thither our fellow passengers were bound. We did not set eyes on them until the last day, when we were only a few hours from Wadi Haifa. They had, as Captain Farah solemnly explained, bad stomachs. Alimentary disorder had not prevented them from exhibiting their religious zeal. The partitions between cabins were flimsy affairs; every evening, prayers and hymns echoed through the walls and went on so long that Emerson was eventually inspired to shout demands for silence. He could shout much more loudly than they could sing, so that put an end to the performances. Yet so uneasy had I become that I could not help wondering whether these persons were what they claimed to be. Sethos had a strange sense of humor, and it would be like him to disguise himself as a man of the cloth. When they finally appeared in the saloon on the morning of the day we were to dock, I stared unabashedly. They were not a married couple, but brother and sister--the Reverend and Miss Campbell. The lady was tall and slim and in my opinion rather too beautiful for a missionary. She was plainly dressed and her face was bare of cosmetics, but this only emphasized the delicate modeling of her cheekbones and the white brow framed by masses of auburn hair. Her voice was low, her accent well-bred, her manner frank and open, her smile engaging. She was certainly not Sethos. Nor was her brother, I decided. He was as ugly as she was beautiful, with scanty light brows and a pathetic wisp of a beard. Theeyebrows might have been plucked and bleached and the lumpy nose a result of putty and greasepaint, but the shallow jaw, only partially veiled by the beard, and the narrow shoulders were not those of the man I had known. I judged him to be a good many years her senior. His voice was almost as high as hers, and as I had discovered, neither could carry a tune. At first I could not understand why he should take such a girl, to whom he was clearly devoted, into such a remote and perilous region. Then psychology offered a clue. When she addressed a few courteous words to Ramses, her brother immediately interrupted. "You are traveling with us as far as Khartoum, I believe. What can you tell us about conditions in that region? Will we find the authorities receptive to our labors for the Lord?" Emerson had taken a dislike to Mr. Campbell even before he met him, over and above his general dislike of missionaries. With characteristic bluntness he replied, "The authorities, yes. Other conditions are not so receptive. I wonder, sir, why you would risk your sister's health, possibly her life, in such an insalubrious region." "Her life belongs to God, sir. She was called to this mission of rescue, as was I." "Rescue, bah," said Emerson. "How do you know it was God who called you?" "The heathen walk in darkness but must be brought to the light." The Reverend Mr. Campbell's eyes, magnified by the lenses of his eyeglasses, took on a fiery glow. "They are believers in black magic and fetishism. I have heard of practices of immorality that shocked me to the depths of my soul. Concubines! Orgies!" "Nakedness," Emerson said helpfully. "The women go about bare to the waist, and some of them are quite--" "Emerson," I exclaimed. "We must get our gear together," Nefret intervened tactfully. She had been looking at the other girl with sympathetic interest. "Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Campbell, in the way of medical assistance? Farah said you had been ill. I have a well-equipped medicine chest and some training." The young lady replied with proper expressions of gratitude,saying she was almost recovered. Mr. Campbell did not appear to be listening. His eyes were half closed and his lips moved as if in silent prayer. The man was a religious maniac. In his eyes his sister was as much a prisoner as any Moslem woman, belonging not to him or any other man, but to God. He had not complete faith in God as a chaperon, however; he would risk the health, even the life, of his sister, rather than take the chance of her meeting a young man whose attentions might weaken her zeal. As we chatted, there was a hail from on deck. "Did he say crocodile?" Miss Campbell asked eagerly. "I've never seen one." "Here's your chance, then," replied Emerson, who was looking for an excuse to end the encounter. "Shall we go up and have a look?" Everyone wanted to have a look. Crocodiles had almost vanished from Egypt itself, and they were becoming rare in this area. Passengers and crew crowded round the rail. The landscape had opened up and the river was broad. Behind the floodplain with its green fields and groves of palm trees the desert rose in a series of terraces, pale yellow in the morning light. Here and there, wadis had cut their way through the soft sandstone. The river had begun to subside, leaving long sandbars strewn with flood debris--reeds and pieces of wood and fallen logs. The German quartet aimed cameras, and Newbold pushed one of the sailors out of his way. His companion was not present; I had not set eyes on her the entire trip. "I don't see," Miss Campbell began. "There," said Ramses, pointing. She let out a gasp of delighted horror and leaned forward as one of the logs opened its jaws and slid from the bank into the water. Two others followed. Ramses, who happened to be standing next to the girl, put his arm round her waist. "Be careful." Campbell, on her other side, let out an exclamation of protest and snatched her away from Ramses, who immediately stepped back. Watching them, I failed to see what happened. I only heard a scream and a splash, and an outcry from the watchers. Selim's voice rose above the others. "Hassan! Help him, Father of Curses!" "Stop the engines!" Emerson called. He caught Selim in an iron grip and pushed him back. "No, Selim! Leave it to ... Curse it-- Ramses--!" Ramses climbed onto the rail and dived. He began swimming toward the flailing arms and distorted face of poor Hassan. The boat shuddered to a stop, but the pair were already some distance astern--and beyond them the surface of the water was broken by a triangular wake, with a long ugly head at its apex. "Throw them a rope!" I shrieked, though to be sure I feared it would not do much good. The crocodile and Ramses were converging on Hassan, or rather on the spot where he had been. There was no sign of him now. Ramses went down after him. And so did the crocodile. Blood stained the muddy surface of the water. Miss Campbell screamed and fainted gracefully into the arms of her brother, who stood staring in paralyzed horror. Then I realized Emerson was gone. Not into the water, surely; I would have seen him jump. I was about to call his name when he came running, thrust the watchers aside, including me, and stood with his feet braced and his arms extended. He was holding a heavy pistol. The water boiled and bubbled, and all three heads reappeared. Ramses appeared to be supporting Hassan, who appeared to be unconscious; the crocodile appeared to be in some distress. It rose half out of the water, jaws snapping. Emerson fired. There was a hideous bellow from the wounded animal. Ramses was swimming, strongly but too slowly, burdened as he was with Hassan. Emerson took careful aim and fired a second and third time. How he managed to hit the thrashing target I cannot imagine, but the third shot finished the creature. It sank like a stone amid a spreading crimson stain. "Get a rope to them, Peabody," said Emerson, moving neither his eyes nor the pistol. "I will just make sure the other beasts don't take a hand. Or should I say a jaw'?" "How can you jest, sir?" Campbell demanded in a shaken voice. "You should be praising God for his infinite mercy." "Well, you see, I don't know yet how merciful he has been," said Emerson coolly. "Peabody . . ." "Yes, my dear. At once." We got them on board. Hassan was a dead weight, unconscious and bleeding heavily. After a quick look at him, Nefret whipped off her belt and fashioned it into a tourniquet. Hassan's left leg ended in a bloody stump. "Oh, my God," I gasped. "The crocodile had him by the foot!" "Yes." Ramses dropped to a sitting position, knees raised and head bowed. He was streaming with water and gasping for breath. "How is he?" "Daoud, Selim, get him to my cabin and put him on the bed," Nefret ordered. "I'll operate there. Hurry!" "He's lucky to be alive," Emerson said grimly. "Once a crocodile gets hold, he rolls and drags his victim down. Ramses, how did you persuade the creature to let go?" "Knife," said Ramses briefly. He was still short of breath. "Lost it." "We will get you another, a better, the best that can be found," said Selim, his voice unsteady. Hassan was his first cousin. "You saved his life." "Not me," said Ramses. "All I could do was . . . distract the brute." He pushed the wet hair back from his face. "Never believed those white-hunter stories . . . Hassan and I would both be crocodile food but for Father." "I was too damn slow," muttered Emerson. "Should have carried the damned pistol instead of leaving it in my suitcase. But who would have supposed . . . You aren't hurt, my boy?" "No, sir. Thank you for asking," he added. "Praise God from whom all blessings flow!" exclaimed the Reverend Campbell. I took Emerson away. At Wadi Haifa we had to go through the laborious business of unloading and transporting our baggage a second time. The steamers lie to close to the railroad station, but thanks to Emerson's preference for a semi-derelict vessel, we had missed the Saturday train. There was not another until Thursday. "All to the good," declared Emerson, unquenchably optimistic. "It will take a while to make arrangements for Hassan's care. We cannot simply walk off and leave him." "Obviously not," I replied. "There is a hospital here, I believe? What is it like?" "I leave it to your imagination, my dear." "I would rather trust the evidence of my own eyes, Emerson," I retorted, mopping my brow. There had been a nice breeze on the river, but now that we were standing still, the heat was really horrid. "The market at Haifa is one of the best in the Sudan," Emerson said. "You will want to do some shopping, Peabody." "Will I?" "You always do, my dear. Remember, this is the last good-sized town we will encounter. Kalabsha, the stop for Meroe, hasn't much beyond a railroad station and a rest house." "What about Berber?" Ramses asked. "Oh. Well, we won't be getting off the train at Berber, will we? No sense in wasting two or three days there. Straight on to Meroe, that's the plan." "What are you shouting for, Emerson?" I inquired. "Was I? No, I wasn't." He tried the door of the station house and found it locked. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the arrival of the steamer and the hope of earning a few piastres. They were talking excitedly among themselves; then one of them advanced and bowed. "Welcome, Father of Curses. Is it indeed you?" "Aywa," Emerson replied. "Myself and no other. Salaam aleikhum, Yusuf Sawar. Send someone to fetch the station master, will you?" It was not long before this individual came hastening up. He was, of course, an old friend. While Emerson exchanged greetings and gave instructions to him, I felt a touch on my arm and looked round to see Mr. Newbold. His hat was in his hand and behind him stood a veiled female figure. "May I beg a favor, Mrs. Emerson?" Newbold asked. "I must make arrangements for the transfer of our luggage, and I don't like to leave my daughter unattended in such a crush of men." "Your what?" I exclaimed, staring in open curiosity at the slender, silent figure. "Ramses said--" "Oh dear," Newbold murmured. "I'm afraid I yielded to the temptation to tease your son just a bit. Daria is my child, whom I have only lately found again. It is a sad story, which I will tell you one day. Would you look after her, only for a few minutes? Your presence will deter anyone from approaching her rudely." He moved away before I could answer, but of course only one answer was possible. Curiosity as well as compassion demanded acceptance. "It is kind of you," said a soft voice from behind the fabric she had drawn across her face. "You speak English?" An unnecessary question, since she obviously did. "Let us step aside," I went on. "Out of the way of all these people." There were a number of questions I wanted to ask her. Why was she a practicing Moslem when her father was Christian? (Not that he was much of a Christian, if the rumors I had heard were true.) What was the "sad story"? Why, if modesty of attire were her aim, was she wearing garments that set off rather than concealed a nicely rounded figure and comely features? It was costly attire, linen as fine as the fabric worn by queens and pharaohs in ancient times, a thin silken scarf covering her head and the lower part of her face--and she was absolutely clanking with jewelry.