About the sarcophagus stood the tutelar divinities, Psh, Shs, Pst and Tkt, the big four of their day. The queen’s lid bore an intaglio of Thothmes indicating that she had a hare-lip. Hundreds of articles I listed carefully in my note-book, becoming completely absorbed in my work.
Then gradually a chill horror numbed my body. My light was going out! There was no doubt about it. It was fainter than it had been. The battery was fading. To die, thus, in the dark! ... horrible. My determination to complete my catalogue drove me to fresh effort. Having completed the movable objects I made a closer inspection of the sarcophagus itself. On the top carved in high relief lay a coiled snake. As I reached my hand toward it, to my amazement, its head raised and I saw the coils stiffen. Across my brain flashed the thought that this was the King’s “Ka,” his spiritual familiar and guardian. But no, that was rot; the creature was alive!
Subconsciously a ray of hope sprang in my breast. Not realizing just why, I reached my light toward the serpent. When it had almost touched him he glided silently over the edge of the stone, dropped with a thud on the tiled floor and flowed like a black stream to the edge, back of a delicate table, where he disappeared.
In a frenzy I hurled the furniture out of the way and cast myself on the floor playing my light before me. There was the snake’s exit, where a tile was loosened against the side wall. And if his exit, why not mine?
Idiot, not to have thought of it before! The construction of tombs is peculiar. They have practically no foundations. In this country with no frosts or moisture it is only necessary to go an inch or two below the level of the hard-packed sand. Dashing the tile aside I felt the surface below. It was friable and crumbled easily under my hand. Scratching the sand deeply with my pen-knife I scraped up the top layer with a shallow copper bowl. In another moment I was burrowing madly like an excited mole.
In an hour I was completely submerged. My flash was thrust in my breast pocket where I could occasionally play its waning beam on the tunnel before me. But I soon learned to do my work in the dark, passing the sand back of me and worming my way forward. Above me I could feel the masonry of the enclosing wall, first on my head, then my shoulders, waist ... legs ... I was free of it.
As I began to turn my tunnel upward the sound of a solid slump caused me to play the light over my shoulder and look back as well as I could. A large mass of sand had fallen from the roof of the tunnel. Not being able to dig with my feet or to turn in the passage any retreat was cut off. It was do or die now and with desperate energy I wielded my scoop.
Strange that I did not reach the surface! On, on, I went and still there was no light ahead. My sense of direction became confused. Was I going upward or digging my grave deeper and more irrevocably in the arid earth. My strength, unusual though it is, was giving out and this dreadful doubt as to my direction served further to sap my energy. “One hundred more scoops”—I vowed ... still no air ... fifty more ... twenty-five ... ten ... one ... I broke through. Air, blessed air, cool and refreshing as water. Panting I lay with only my head above ground. It was night, and such a night! blowing a gale with the wind heavily freighted with sand. But amid the stinging drifts I rolled over and slept the sleep of a child.
The bright sun woke me and I staggered to my feet shaking the sand from my garments and staring stupidly before me. My experience came back slowly like a confused dream. The tomb. O, yes ... the tomb ... but where was it? I rubbed my eyes. There was no tomb. And then I realized what had happened.
During my incarceration the gale had heaped the sand-drifts about my prison until it was completely covered. No trace or trail indicated its position. Of my tunnel there was not a vestige and I realized why it had taken me so long to reach the surface.