He hastened to this door, and pushed it open. Here again was darkness. He went for his lamp; and then stepped through into a low passage; and thence through another door into a very large apartment. As he had surmised, it was the private embalming room.
With lamp held high, he walked in its fell shadows, examining. Here was the crooked piece of iron for drawing out the brain through the nostrils. Here was the Ethiopian stone for making the incision in the side. There were the palm wine, the powdered myrrh, the cassia, the other aromatic drugs. There were the bandages of linen, the gum, the natron, even the cinnamon. And—yes—there in the most distant corner—were more of those pure, translucent alabaster coffins. Empty—waiting for whom?
The apartment was shaken with his groans. He felt if he staid longer his senses would give way. Wildly he ran back into the vault, and toward the stairway. His soul was filled with horror. His eyeballs burned. His body shook as if with palsy. So overcome was he that, on the topmost step, he fell panting. And could not rise for many minutes. When he did, it was to totter to the inner sanctuary. Here he fell on a couch, groaning repeatedly.
Finally, his strength returning, he went over to Oltis, and said, “I have been down the stairway.”
Over the marble figure passed a tremor.
“I have seen the dead handmaids in their alabaster coffins!”
There was another tremor.
“Whose work was this?”
The marble lips moved.
“It was that of Atlano and myself.”