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 ancient friend?" Lawrence asked softly. "Mad? Deluded? Or just what you claim to be--Ramses the Great?"
It gave him a chill to say it--
what the French call a frisson. He rose and drew closer to the mummy.
The rays of the sun were positively bathing the thing. For the first time he noticed the contours of its eyebrows beneath the wrappings; there seemed more expression--hard, determined--to its face.
Lawrence smiled. He spoke to it in Latin, piecing together his sentences carefully. "Do you know how long you've slumbered, immortal Pharaoh? You who claimed to have lived one thousand years?"
Was he murdering the ancient language? He had spent so many years translating hieroglyphs that he was rusty with Caesar's tongue. "It's been twice that long, Ramses, since you sealed yourself in this chamber; since Cleopatra put the poisonous snake to her breast."
He stared at the figure, silent for a moment. Was there a mummy that did not arouse in one some deep, cold fear of death? You could believe life lingered there somehow; that the soul was trapped in the wrappings and could only be freed if the thing were destroyed.
Without thinking he spoke now in English.
"Oh, if only you were immortal. If only you could open your eyes on this modern world. And if only I didn't have to wait for permission to remove those miserable bandages, to look on ... your face!"
The face. Had something changed in the face? No; it was only the full sunlight, wasn't it? But the face did seem fuller. Reverently, Lawrence reached out to touch it but then didn't, his hand poised there motionless.
He spoke in Latin again. "It's the year 1914, my great King. And the name Ramses the Great is still known to all the world; and so is the name of your last Queen."
Suddenly there was a noise behind him. Henry:
"Speaking to Ramses the Great in Latin, Uncle? Maybe the curse is already working on your brain."
"Oh, he understands Latin," Lawrence answered, still staring at the mummy. "Don't you, Ramses? And Greek also. And Persian and Etruscan, and tongues the world has forgotten. Who knows? Perhaps you knew the tongues of the ancient northern barbarians which became our own English centuries ago." Once again, he lapsed into Latin. "But oh, there are so many wonders in the world now, great Pharaoh. There are so many things I could show you...."
"I don't think he can hear you, Uncle," Henry said coldly. There was a soft chink of glass touching glass. "Let's hope not, in any case."
Lawrence turned around sharply. Henry, a briefcase tucked under his left arm, held the lid of one of the jars in his right hand.
"Don't touch that!" Lawrence said crossly. "It's poison, you imbecile. They're all full of poisons. One pinch and you'll be as dead as he is. That is, if he's truly dead." Even the sight of his nephew made him angry. And at a time such as this....
Lawrence turned back to the mummy. Why, even the hands seemed fuller. And one of the rings had almost broken through the wrapping. Only hours ago....
"Poisons?" Henry asked behind him.
"It's a veritable laboratory of poisons," Lawrence answered. "The very poisons Cleopatra tried, before her suicide, upon her helpless slaves!" But why waste this precious information on Henry?
"How incredibly quaint," his nephew answered. Cynical, sarcastic. "I thought she was bitten by an asp."
"You're an idiot, Henry. You know less history than an Egyptian camel driver. Cleopatra tried a hundred poisons before she settled on the snake."
He turned and watched coldly as his nephew touched the marble bust of Cleopatra, his fingers passing roughly over the nose, the eyes.
"Well, I fancy this is worth a small fortune, anyway. And these coins. You aren't going to give these things to the British Museum, are you?"
Lawrence sat down in the camp chair. He dipped the pen. Where had he stopped in his translation? Impossible to concentrate with these distractions.
"Is money all you think about?" he asked coldly. "And what have you ever done with it but gamble it away?" He looked up at his nephew. When had the youthful fire died in that handsome face? When had arrogance hardened it, and aged it; and made it so deadly dull? "The more I give you, the more you lose at the tables. Go back to London, for the love of heaven. Go back to your mistress and your music hall cronies. But get out."