This verdict had put an end to Ferlini's hopes, and nothing remained of them save the translated copy of the writing in his notebook (the missing words inserted) and the legends of the negroes who, generation after generation since forgotten times, had told the story of the "Mountain of the Golden Pyramid." Nobody, within the memory of man, had ever searched for the problematical tomb: and as tales of more or less the same character are common in Egypt, I did not place much faith in the enthusiastic jottings of Ferlini. However, my love of the unknown, the mysterious and romantic, made me feel that the possession of the notebook was worth the price asked: two thousand lire. When I had brooded over it myself, I posted it to Fenton at Khartum; and his opinion had brought me to Egypt. Thinking of the matter in this way, it seemed that we owed our love stories to the impecunious artist, who had probably spent his eighty pounds and forgotten me by this time. In a few hours, or a few days, we might owe him even more.
Anthony, acquainted with Meröe, its pyramids and pyramidal mountains, since his first coming to the Sudan, had been able to plan out our campaign almost at an hour's notice. He knew where to wire for camels [to take us to our destination, eighteen miles from Kabushîa], also for trained excavators. And he knew one who, if the white men were in ignorance, could tell us all the most hidden happenings of the desert for fifty miles around. This was the great character of the neighbourhood, among the blacks, the Wise Man of the Meröitic desert, who claimed to be over a hundred years old, had a tribe of sons and grandsons, and practically ruled the village of Bakarawiya. For countless generations his forbears had lived under the shadow of the ruined pyramids. Family tradition made them the descendants of those Egyptian warriors who revolted in the time of King Psammetichus, migrating from Elephantine Island to Ethiopia. There they were well received by the sovereign, given lands in Upper Nubia, and the title of Autolomi, or Asmack, meaning "Those who stand on the left side of the King." Anthony's friend and instructor in the lore of legends rejoiced in the name of "Asmack," which, he proudly said, had been bestowed on the eldest son in his family, since time immemorial.
Asmack the old and wise was to meet us at Kabushîa Station, with camels, one for each, and one for Sir Marcus, in case he had arrived and wished to ride to the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid.
It was orange-red afternoon when our white train slowed down, to pause for a moment at Kabushîa Station, and the first face we saw was that of Sir Marcus Antonius—a radiant face whose beaming smile was, I knew, not so much a welcome for us as a sign that he had received the telegram from Cleopatra. He hurried along the platform to the steps of our sleeping car; and Anthony, ready to swing himself down before the train stopped, pointed out Asmack not far off,—a thin old black man who must once have been a stately giant, but bent forward now as if searching the earth for his own grave. He had got to his feet, from a squatting position in the coal-stained, alluvial clay of this strange desert, and was gazing toward us, his few rags fluttering in the warm wind. Beside him stood a mere youth of fifty or so, and two or three young men, with several sulky camels.
Sir Marcus began to shake hands almost before we were on the platform; and so did he engross himself in us and absorb our attention that none of us quite knew when the train went out.
"My dear boys!" he addressed us, nearly breaking our finger bones. "Lord, Fenton, you're even better looking as a true Britisher than a false Arab! But never mind that now. Borrow, you're a trump. I believe I owe everything to you. I mean, in the matter of Mrs. East—Clara. It always was my favourite name. Fenton knows? Thanks for the congratulations. Thanks to you both. You must be my best men. What? Can't have but one? Well, it must be Borrow, then, I suppose. Oh, about the mountain? Why, of course you're anxious. Don't think I have not been busy. I have. Got here by special train. Cost me a lot of money. But who cares? It's worth it. I want to hurry things up, and get to Khartum. What your blessed mountain is to you, that is a certain lady to me."
"What have you found out?" I managed at last to cut short his rhapsodies.
"Why, not much, I'm bound to confess. But I've had only a few hours. Some one—heaven knows who—came here, it seems, with Arabs he'd engaged heaven knows where, and pretended to be my agent, empowered by me to work at the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid, where it was well known I'd got the right to excavate. Well, the chap was armed with credentials, and had a contract signed by me, so the authorities thought he was all right of course, and let him go on. This was more than a month ago. He pitched his camp out by the mountain, and nobody disturbed him. Fact is, from what I hear, I don't believe the excavating men from the Liverpool School of Archeology or whatever you call it, thought much of his chances of success. A case of looking for Captain Kidd's treasure! He and his men were excavating round the mountain, and he'd engaged some more fellows from the neighbourhood to make the work go faster. But a few days ago—not yet a week—he discharged the lot, paid them up and sent them off saying he'd abandoned hope of finding any entrance to an alleged tomb. The Arabs departed by train; but the fellows from hereabouts gossiped a bit, it seemed, and the story was started that they'd been got rid of because the Boss had hit on something, and wanted to be left to himself.
"You haven't told us yet the name of the man," Anthony reminded him.
"By Jove, no more I haven't! I'm so excited about everything. You won't know it, but Borrow will. Colonel Corkran."