these small Western luxuries. Yes, that kind of woman. Rather than Daisy, his London mistress, a spoilt and demanding creature who nevertheless excited him, perhaps because she was so difficult to please.
He took one last swallow of Scotch, picked up his leather briefcase, and left the tent.
The crowds were ghastly. All night long he'd been awakened by die grind and huff of automobiles, and frenzied voices. And now the heat was rising; and he could already feel sand inside his shoes.
How he loathed Egypt. How he loathed these desert camps and the filthy camel-riding Arabs, and the lazy dirty servants. How he loathed his uncle's entire world.
And there was Samir, that insolent, irritating assistant who fancied himself Lawrence's social equal, trying to quiet the foolish reporters. Could this really be the tomb of Ramses II? Would Lawrence grant an interview?
Henry didn't give a damn. He pushed past the men who were guarding the entrance to the tomb.
"Mr. Stratford, please," Samir called after him. A lady reporter was on his heels." Let your uncle alone now," Samir said as he drew closer." Let him savor his find."
"The hell I will."
He glared at the guard who blocked his path. The man moved. Samir turned back to hold off the reporters. Who was going into the tomb? they wanted to know.
"This is a family matter," he said quickly and coldly to the woman reporter trying to follow him. The guard stepped in her path.
So little time left. Lawrence stopped writing, wiped his brow carefully, folded his handkerchief and made one more brief note:
"Brilliant to hide the elixir in a wilderness of poisons. What safer place for a potion that confers immortality than among potions that bring death. And to think they were her poisons - those which Cleopatra tested before deciding to use the venom of the asp to take her life."
He stopped, wiped his brow again. Already so hot in here.
And within a few short hours, they'd be upon him, demanding that he leave the tomb for the museujn officials. Oh, if only he had made this discovery without the museum. God knows, he hadn't needed them. And they would take it all out of his hands.
The sun came in fine shafts through the rough-cut doorway. It struck the alabaster jars in front of him, and it seemed he heard something - faint, like a whispered breath.
He turned and looked at the mummy, at the features clearly molded beneath the tight wrappings. The man who claimed to be Ramses had been tall, and perhaps robust.
Not an old man, like the creature lying in the Cairo Museum. But then this Ramses claimed that he had never grown old. He was immortal, and merely slept within these bandages. Nothing could kill him, not even the poisons in this room, which he had tried in quantity, when grief for Cleopatra had left him half-mad. On his orders, his servants had wrapped his unconscious body; they had buried him alive, in the coffin he had had prepared for himself, supervising every detail; then they had sealed the tomb with the door that he himself had inscribed.
But what had rendered him unconscious? That was the mystery. Ah, what a delicious story. And what if - ?
He found himself staring at the grim creature in its bindings of yellow linen. Did he really believe that something was alive there? Something that could move and speak?
It made Lawrence smile.
He turned back to the jars on the desk. The sun was making the little room an inferno. Taking his handkerchief, he carefully lifted the lid of the first jar before him. Smell of bitter almonds. Something as deadly as cyanide.
And the immortal Ramses claimed to have ingested half the contents of the jar in seeking to end his cursed life.
What if there were an immortal being under those wrappings ?
There came that sound again. What was it? Not a rustling; no, nothing so distinct. Rather like an intake of breath.
Once again he looked at the mummy. The sun was shining full on it in long, beautiful dusty rays - the sun that shone through church windows, or through the branches of old oaks in dim forest glens.
It seemed he could see the dust rising from the ancient figure: a pale gold mist of moving particles. Ah, he was too tired!
And the thing, it did not seem so withered any longer; rather it had taken on the contour of a man." But what were you really, my