"Quite right, quite right." Walter was delighted. "Here is the word for 'sister.' In ancient Egyptian that might mean -- " His voice faltered. Evelyn, sensitive to the slightest change in his feelings, quietly returned to her chair.
"Sister and brother were terms of endearment," said Emerson, finishing the sentence his brother had begun. "A lover spoke of his sweetheart as his sister."
"And this," said Walter in a low voice, "is a love poem."
"Splendid," exclaimed Lucas. "Read it to us, Master Walter, if you please."
Lucas had insisted that we be informal; but his address of Walter by the childish title was certainly meant to provoke. On this occasion it had no effect; Walter was too absorbed in his studies.
"I can only make out a few lines," he said. "You ought not to have unrolled it, Lord Ellesmere; the break goes through part of the text. However, this section reads:
I go down with thee into the water And come forth to thee again With a red fish, which is- beautiful on my fingers.
"There is a break here. The lovers are by the water; a pond, or the Nile. They- they disport themselves in the cool water."
"It doesn't have the ring of a love poem to me," Lucas said skeptically. "If I offered a fish, red or white, to a lady of my acquaintance as a love offering, she would not receive it graciously. A diamond necklace would be more welcome."
Evelyn moved slightly in her chair. Walter went on, "This is certainly a lover speaking. He is on one side of the river-
The love of the sister is upon yonder side; A stretch of water is between And a crocodile waiteth upon the sandbank. But I go down into the water, I walk upon the flood; My heart is brave upon the water It is the love of her that makes me strong."
There was a brief silence when he stopped speaking. I don't know which impressed me more- the quaint charm of the lines or the expertness with which the modest young man had deciphered them.
"Brilliant, Walter," I cried, forgetting propriety in my enthusiasm. "How inspiring it is to realize that noble human emotions are as ancient as man himself."
"It seems to me not so much noble as foolhardy," said Lucas lazily. "Any man who jumps into a river inhabited by crocodiles deserves to be eaten up."
"The crocodile is a symbol," I said scornfully. "A symbol of the dangers and difficulties any true lover would risk to win his sweetheart."
"That is very clever, Miss Amelia," Walter said, smiling at me.
"Too clever," growled Emerson. "Attempting to read the minds of the ancient Egyptians is a chancy business, Peabody. It is more likely that the crocodile is a typical lover's extravagance- a boast that sounds well, but that no man of sense would carry out."
I was about to reply when Evelyn fell into a fit of coughing.
"Well, well," Lucas said. "How happy I am that my little offering has proved to be so interesting! But don't you think we ought to make plans for tonight? The sun is almost down."
It was one of the most stunning sunsets I had ever beheld. The fine dust in the atmosphere produces amazing conditions of light, such as our hazy English air does not allow. There was something almost threatening about the sunset that evening; great bands of blood-red and royal purple, translucent blue like the glaze on ancient pottery, gold and amber and copper streaks.
I asked Lucas whether his crew might not help us guard the camp, but he shook his head.
"Evidently they met some of the villagers today. Your crew has also been infected, Miss Amelia. I would not be surprised if all of them fled."
"They cannot do that," I exclaimed. "I am paying them! Nor do I believe that Reis Hassan would abandon his trust."
"He would have some excellent excuse," Lucas said cynically. "Adverse winds, threatening weather- any excuse for mooring elsewhere."
I was aware, then, of someone beside me. Turning, I beheld Michael, whom I had not seen all day.
"Sitt Hakim"- for so he always addressed me- "I must speak to you alone."
"Certainly," I said, although I was surprised at his request and at his interruption of our conversation.
"After dinner," Lucas said, giving the poor fellow a sharp look. Michael shrank back, and Lucas added, "Michael, or whatever your name is, you are not needed. My men will serve the meal. I promised them they might return before dark. Miss Peabody will speak with you later."
Michael obeyed, with a last pleading glance at me. As soon as he was out of earshot I said, "Lucas, I really cannot have you reprimanding my servants!"
"My first name!" Lucas exclaimed, with a broad smile. "You have broken down at last, Miss Amelia; you have done me the honor of addressing me as a friend. We must drink to that." And he refilled his wine glass.
"We- to use the word loosely- have drunk too much already," I retorted. "As for Michael- "
"Good heavens, such a fuss over a servant," Lucas said contemptuously. "I think I know what he wants to speak to you about, Miss Amelia, and if I were you I should not be in a hurry to hear it."
He held up his glass as if admiring the sparkle of the liquid in the fading light.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Lucas shrugged.
"Why, the fellow means to be off. My men tell me that he is in a complete funk. It is to his babbling, in no small measure, that I attribute their cowardice. No doubt he will have some specious excuse for leaving you, but leave you he will."
"I cannot believe it," Evelyn said firmly. "Michael is a fine man. Loyal, devoted- "
"But a native," Lucas finished. "With a native's weaknesses."
"And you are quite familiar with the weaknesses of the- er- natives," Emerson put in. He had not spoken much; for once his grating purr, like the throaty emanation of a very large, angry cat, did not offend my ears.
"Human beings are much the same the world over," Lucas replied negligently. "The ignorant always have their superstitions and their fondness for money."
"I bow to your superior knowledge," Emerson said. "I had been under the impression that it was not only the ignorant who are corrupted by money."
"I cannot believe Michael will desert us," I said, putting an end to the bickering. "I will speak to him later."
But later I was forced to admit, little as I liked it, that Lucas had been right. Michael was nowhere to be found. At first, when he did not seek me out, I assumed he had changed his mind about wanting to speak to me. It was not until we began thinking of our plans for the night that we realized he was missing. A search produced no trace of him. Lucas's servants- a shabby-looking group if I had ever seen one- had long since departed, so we could not ask if they had seen him.
"He had not even the courage to make his excuses to you," Lucas said, "Depend upon it, he has crept away."
Michael's defection left us in rather serious condition, I thought, but when I expressed the idea, Lucas pooh-poohed my concern.
"We ought to get to our posts," he continued. "With all due respect to your measures, I do not believe you went about the business very sensibly." "Let us hear your plans," said Emerson humbly. I could not imagine what ailed the man. Except for brief outbursts of irony he adopted an attitude of subservient meekness toward Lucas, a man considerably his junior in age and certainly his inferior in experience. Nor could I believe that it was physical weakness that curbed his tongue. Emerson would criticize Old Nick himself when that individual came to bear him away as he lay dying.