“They would be hard to find here, like Jakoub,” he said.
I took the lantern from him, and began to examine the cave, for such I took it to be.
I found myself in a large rectangular chamber hewn out of the solid rock that here closely underlay the desert sand.
At one end of it I found a grave-like excavation about three feet deep and six feet long. I saw the remains of an earthenware pipe leading into it, and turned away with an involuntary shudder.
In the opposite wall there was a narrow pointed opening. I had to stoop to go through it, and found myself in a circular chamber. There were low seats, or sedilia, carved in the rock all around, and over each seat a square niche cut in the rock. In the centre were the broken remains of a slab of rock which could only have been an altar.
I did not know what hateful rites had been celebrated on it, but everything told me I was in a place of ancient secret worship. I recalled a smattering recollection of Mithraic superstition with its blood-bath. That was probably the meaning of the grave-like place with its conduit. Here men had hidden themselves from the light of day 2,000 years ago, and here a man lost now would never be recovered.
Jakoub smiled in my face. I put my hand on the revolver. If this were a trap he had led me into, I swore to myself that he should die in it too.
“No sand comes here,” he said. “The effendi will be cool while we wait.”
It was evident that the man was still considering only my comfort. My fears of him were nothing but the cowardice of jangled nerves.
The two Arab boys joined us, bearing my rugs and hamper, some extra candles, and a copy of The Contemporary Review with an article of my own in it; the sort of encumbrance that clings so long to civilised man. And under Jakoub’s directions they proceeded to make a kind of couch for me, where I should be able to spend the hours before us in comparative comfort.