Thus it was that from this poor dying maniac we first heard with absolute certainty that the papyrus had not lied. Evidently he, like the other unfortunate wretches whose bones littered the desert sands, had been driven out of the fertile land beyond the hills and left to become a prey to the vultures of the wilderness, and slowly to die in the midst of terrible tortures of hunger, thirst and isolation.
“They don’t seem to be very pleasant people to deal with out there,” I remarked, “if this is an example of their retributive justice.”
Hugh looked down at the man at his feet.
“Why wast thou cast out?” he asked.
The maniac looked up, astonished, perhaps, that a god should have need to ask such questions. I could see in his eyes that he was making a vigorous effort to recollect something in the past, then he said:
“How beautiful is thy temple, oh, all-creating Ra!… so beautiful… and so dark… so jealously guarded… no one knows what lies beyond.… I tried to know… to learn thy secrets. I know now!… the valley of death, whence no man returns, the valley of earth and sky, where hunger gnaws the vitals and thirst burns the throat… where evil birds croak of eternal darkness, and vile beasts prowl at night…”
He was trembling from head to foot, and his eyes, quite wild with terror, watched a black raven close by, which had alighted on a skull and was picking some débris of flesh out of the hollow sockets of the eyes.
“Give me sleep, oh Anubis!” he moaned, “and rest… eternal sleep… and rest… and rest…”
“He is dying,” I said, kneeling down beside the maniac and supporting his head. “Give me some brandy, Girlie.”
“I think it would be kinder to knock him on the head; this prolonged agony is terrible. What fiends, I wonder, invented this awful mode of dealing with criminals?”