I spent the rest of the day covering up the stele I had unearthed with sand. There was no use thinking of attempting to transport it to Cairo under existing circumstances. But I had no mind to be deprived of the credit attached to its discovery. So I hid it well. Afterwards I gathered up my portable possessions, including my tent, and packed them in a load for my ass's back ready for the morrow. For I had resolved to set out on the morrow for the Hill of Rakh. Surely, I thought, Ottley will be quite recovered by this. I wondered why he had not sent for me before—in accordance with his pledge. Had he forgotten it? The desert was exceptionally still that evening. There was a new moon, and although it gave but little light, it seemed to have chained the denizens of the wilderness to cover. I lay upon the sand gazing up at the stars and listening in vain for sounds, for hours, then, at length, I fell into a quiet doze. The howling of a jackal awakened me. It was very far off, therefore I must have slept lightly. A long sleep, for the moon had disappeared. The darkness that lay upon the land was like the impenetrable gloom of a rayless cave. But the heavens were spangled with twinkling eyes, that beamed upon me very friendly wise. I had lost all desire to repose, but I had found a craving for a pipe. I took out my old briar-wood, therefore, charged it to the brim and struck a match. "My God!" I gasped and scrambled afoot. The tall Arab who had terrified Miss Ottley in the cave temple at Rakh stood about three paces off intently regarding me. I struck a second match before the first had burned out, then felt for my revolver.
"Tell me what it is you want," I cried in Arabic, "and quickly, or I fire."
He did not speak, but very slowly he moved towards me. I raised the pistol. "Stop," I said. He did not stop. "Then have it!" I cried, and pulled the trigger.
He did not flinch from the blistering flash of the discharge. It seemed to me that it should have seared his face and that the bullet should have split his skull. I had a momentary glimpse of a ghastly, brownish-yellow visage and of two dull widely separated eyes peering into mine. Then all was dark again and I was struggling as never I had struggled in my life before. Long, stiff fingers clutched my throat. A rigid wood-like form was pressed against my own and my nostrils were filled with a sickly penetrating odour which I all too sharply recognised. It was the perfume that had issued from the sarcophagus of Ptahmes when I drove my chisel through the lead. At first I grasped nothing but air. But clutching wildly at the things that gripped my throat, I caught hands at last composed of bone. There was no flesh on them, or so it seemed to me. Yet it was good to grip something. It gave me heart. I had a horrible feeling for some awful seconds of contending with the supernatural. But those hands were hard and firm. They compressed my windpipe. Back and fro we writhed. I heard nothing but my own hard breathing. I was being slowly strangled. It was very hard to drag those hands apart. But I am strong, stronger than many men who earn their living by exhibiting to the vulgar feats of strength. Impelled by fear of death, I exerted my reserve of force, and driving will and muscle into one supreme united effort I tore the death grip from my neck and flung the Arab off. Uttering a sobbing howl of relief and rage, I followed him and caught him by the middle. Then stooping low, I heaved him high and dashed him to the ground. There came a sound of snapping wood or bones, but neither sigh nor cry of any sort. "We'll see," I growled, and struck a match. The sand before me was dinted, but deserted. The Arab had vanished. My senses rocked in horrified astonishment. My flesh crept. A cold chill of vague unreasoning terror caught me. I listened, all my nerves taut strained, peering wildly round into the dark. But the silence was unbroken. Nothing was to be heard, nothing was to be seen. Were it not for the dinted sand and the marks of feet other than my own where we had stepped and struggled, I could have come to the conclusion I had dreamed. After a while spent in soothing panic fears, I sneaked off to my baggage and extracted from the pile a candle lamp. This I lighted and, returning, searched the sands on hands and knees. The stranger's footprints were longer than my own and they were toe-marked. Plainly, then, he had stolen on me naked-footed. Looking wide around the dint made by his falling body I came presently upon some more of them. They were each a yard apart, and led towards the Hill of Rakh. Yet only for a little while. Soon they grew fainter and fainter. Finally they disappeared. Tortured by the mystery of it all, I halted where the footprints vanished and, putting out the lamp, squatted on the ground to wait for dawn. It came an hour later, but it told me nothing fresh. Indeed, it only rendered the riddle more intolerably maddening. Where had my Arab gone? And how had he come? For there was not a single footprint leading to the camp. Of course he might have thrown a cloak before him on which to walk; and thus he might have progressed and left no trace. But wherefore such extraordinary caution? And why should he be so anxious to conceal himself? It was hard to give up the riddle, but easier to abandon than to solve it. Calling philosophy to my aid and imagination, I determined that my Arab was some mad hermit upon whose solitude Ottley had intruded in the first instance, and I in the second. And that he had conceived a particular animosity for some unknown reason against my humble self and wished to kill me. Without a doubt, he had some secret hiding-place and feared lest I should seek to discover it. Perhaps he had found some treasure of which he had constituted himself the jealous guardian. I felt sure, at any rate, that he was mad. His actions had always been so peculiar and his speechlessness so baffling and astonishing and crassly unreasonable. But he or someone had killed my donkey. I found the poor beast lying in a hollow, dead as Cæsar. A knife had been employed, a long, sharp-pointed knife—perhaps a sword. It had searched out the creature's heart and pierced it. I made a hasty autopsy in order to be sure. The circumstance was most exasperating. It condemned me to the task of being my own beast of burthen. And the load was not a light one. I made, however, the best of a bad job, and having fortified myself with a good breakfast, I started off laden like a pack-horse for the Hill of Rakh. Having covered four miles, I stopped. Miss Ottley and Captain Frankfort Weldon had suddenly come into view. They were mounted. I sat down on my baggage, lighted a cigarette and waited. Common elementary Christian charity would compel them to offer me a lift. It was a good thought. It is not right that a man should work like a beast. And, besides, it was cheering to see Miss Ottley again. She came up looking rather care-worn and a good deal surprised. I arose and doffed my hat like a courtier. Captain Weldon touched his helmet with his whip by way of salute. He might have just stepped out of a bandbox. I felt he did not like me. The girl looked at me with level brows.
"Sir Robert well and strong again?" I asked.
"Quite," said Miss Ottley.
"We were on our way to pay you a visit," observed the Captain.
"Sir Robert wants me," I hazarded.
Miss Ottley shrugged her shoulders. "Does he?" she asked, then added with a tinge of irony, "You seem content to be one of those who are always neglected until a need arises for their services. Does it appear impossible that we might have contemplated a friendly call?"
"I have no parlour tricks," I explained.