One hour of my precious time had passed. Should I go on—or return? Hesitating, a fresh detail lured me forward. To the north-west and dominating the surrounding mounds rose one considerably higher. According to my documents I should now be at the site of the most astounding discovery possible in this corner of the world. Resolved to make a last inspection from this hill I made my way toward it.
Even as I ascended its eastern side a thrill crept up my spine for I could see that the ground sloped sharply away to the west which, my papers said, it should do. And on the top of the knoll I stood aghast.
Yes! it was true. I had found it. I, Walter Traprock, American, stood awed, silent and alone, looking down into the Lost Valley of Bulls, the burial place of Dimitrino, the First of the Pharaohs.
Let me say here that I do not belittle the importance of Tut-Ankh-Amen, but may I also point out that he has been widely acclaimed because he was the last of the Pharaohs? Dimitrino, I repeat, was the first. It is obvious to whom the greater credit must go. Year after year, for centuries, historians have groped for some allusion, some hint which should guide them to the spot which lay before me.
The tomb occupied the center of a small valley in which the purple dusk already lay heavy. Against my better judgment, chuckling excitedly, I ploughed down the sloping banks, passed between two gigantic porphyry bulls and finally stood beside the mausoleum itself. Though intending to make only a cursory examination one exciting detail led to another. The smoothly worked granite blocks with their close joints excited my wonder. Near the top of the dome in a band of ornamentation I noted a bronze ring artfully worked in the design. It was comparatively easy to climb the curving sides and reach this stone. It was large and I had not the faintest idea that it would move. Imagine my surprise then when it slid slowly under a strong pull and I gazed down through a square opening into the blackness of the actual burial chamber. With a thrill of fear I bent forward, head and shoulders through the aperture and flooded the great room with my flashlight. Wonder of wonders! What splendors lay below me.
I had only time to glimpse a dazzling array of gold and brilliant color when my legs were suddenly lifted up from behind and I was thrust violently forward through the opening. Twisting as I fell I quickly flashed my light upward. The great stone was slowly sliding into place but in the narrowing space the beam of my flash fell on the distorted features of Horace Wimpole.
My head suddenly swam with dizziness and I fainted.
Chapter XIII
Buried Alive
Chapter XIII
My revival was sudden and violent. For a second I lay semi-conscious; then realizing my predicament, every fibre rebelled at the ridiculous situation. Caught ... caught again, like a rat in my own trap. Blindly I rushed about in the blackness of the tomb. Underfoot resounded the crash of fragile furniture, the splintering of priceless relics. My head struck some sort of musical instrument built on the tambourine order which fell to the floor with a weird jangling of copper discs. Then I stumbled over a great urn and lay panting amid the fragments.