'—And now we implore that the blessing of Bast be given to our work. Though there may be destruction, yet it is ultimately to save, not to destroy, that we hope. Inasmuch as we have obeyed commands, that we have not wasted life by taking it wantonly, that we have imprisoned rather than slain, we ask help. Shall it ever be said that Bast has allowed ruin to be the consequence of obedience? We have faith that Bast will never forsake her people. Her justice, her mercy, her understanding, her ways inscrutable—these we honour. Will she not lend us now her wisdom, her wit, her power irresistible?'
Garm bowed low. The congregation knelt, and bent its faces to the floor. The old man's voice still muttered the sing-song prayer for blessings. His manner was less devout than that of the rest. One felt that he approached the goddess with a full knowledge of her obligations towards her people. There was an unmistakable air of 'we've done the right thing by you; now it's up to you not to let us down'. The conception of a bargain was blatant; almost put into words, though there was no threat of reprisals in case of Bast's default.
Margaret made one interesting discovery. She had wondered why the pygmies with their light regard of death troubled to imprison their captives. It now appeared as obedience to the goddess's direct wish. There was no humanitarian feeling behind it—merely blind observance of a religious rule. Had they been cramped for space, the law might have lapsed, as it was they were put to no trouble, since the captives were made self-supporting. She and Mark and all the prisoners probably had to thank the long dead Egyptian missionaries who had set up the temple for cunningly including a law for their own preservation in the articles of faith.
But still she had no clue to the reason for this special service. For all Garm's lack of humility, he showed far more supplication than was usual in his formal prayers.
She let her eyes rove over the hundreds of bowed, naked backs. Row upon row of them, white beneath the many globes, dull dry white; not one body with a healthy, gleaming skin. Her gaze reached the backmost row. Suddenly she stiffened, and leaned forward round the stone foot, staring fixedly. Her mouth opened, but she caught back the rising exclamation in time.
Beside the entrance stood a giant—at least, so he appeared to her first startled glance. She had grown so used to pygmy standards that it was hard to recognise him as a normal man. Her heart hammered with a sudden excitement, painfully so that she pressed a hand below her left breast. But it was not Mark. A sudden rush of dizziness, compound of shock and disappointment, left her leaning weakly against the stone. She forced her eyes back to the distant figure, and strained to distinguish the details. Absurd that she could ever have thought that it was Mark. This man was dark and bearded. His clothes, even, were unlike Mark's; he seemed to be wearing the rags of a uniform____
What could he be doing here? Why hadn't the pygmies captured him? It was impossible that anyone could have penetrated as far as this unseen____Or had he escaped?
No, that was obviously absurd. But wasn't his very presence here absurd? Garm had said that except for herself all the captives were in the prison caves—and once they were in, they stayed in. What, then-?
She gave it up, and stood watching him. He lounged against the wall; seemed to be watching with a kind of tolerant boredom. Evidently he stood in no fear of the pygmies. But why not?
Garm's prayer was ending. He was calling upon the concourse to proclaim the magnificence of Bast. The responses of their thin voices swept through the cavern like the rustle of a high wind.
Bast, the benign. Bast, the merciful. Bast, the omnis cient.
The cat, disturbed, resumed its prowling. It mewed plaintively. Garm paused with both hands upraised; he knew something of the value of dramatic effect. In all the huge temple cave there was no sound but the thin crying of the cat.
The pygmies had gone, and Garm with them. Of all the hundreds who had filled the place only Margaret's four guards remained. But the stranger, the man at the far end, had not gone. He had stood close to the wall while the crowd passed out. They saw him, but they did not give him a second glance. Not until the last of them had been swallowed up in the tunnel did he rouse himself into an indolent saunter towards the statue. Margaret waited, watching his unhurried approach with a sense of misgiving. She had no premonition, merely a feeling that something was amiss. The man's casual air was unreasonably out of place in its surroundings.
He looked an unattractive specimen, but so, she reminded herself, would any man just free of the prison caves. The rags of his uniform dangled and flapped about him as he walked. The buttonless jacket fell open to show a hard muscled, though none too clean, chest and stomach. Beneath a tangle of black hair, dark eyes set in a sallow face were fixed on her own. The expression of his mouth was invisible behind a ragged scrub of beard and moustache.
His head tilted back as he looked up to the calm stone face far above. She saw a flash of white teeth as he smiled derisively. He began to mount the stairs without hesitation. Margaret shot a glance at her four guards. They were watching the man with the barest curiosity, certainly without animosity. He approached her where she stood beside the altar. For a moment his gaze was transferred to the cat. He put out a hand, and stroked it gently behind the ear. The expressions of the guards became respectful; it was evident that the man was on good terms with the goddess. The cat purred, and rubbed itself against his hand. Looking back to Margaret, he said:
'You've got a soft job, eh?' The English was easy enough, but it was spoken with a strong Latin accent.
He looked her up and down in a fashion she did not like. It had the effect of making her feel far more naked than she had been when swimming to impress the pygmies. She tried to shake off the feeling of uneasiness he induced. It was ridiculous that she should feel like this towards the first man of her own kind she had seen for—how long?—well, a very long time.
'Who are you?' she asked.
'Miguel Salvades. And you are Miss Lawn?'
'How did you know?'
Miguel shrugged his shoulders.
'There is little news in the prison caves—when there is any, everybody knows it. When it is that a beautiful lady is imprisoned here instead of with the rest of us, everybody is very interested.'
'Then you have seen Mark? Tell me, how is he?'
'He is well now. He was very bad for a long time. They thought he would die.'
Margaret, too, had thought he would die. How those pygmies had hammered and beaten him! She had flung herself on them, trying to help, until others came and dragged her away. Her last sight of him had been of a battered and bleeding figure sprawling helpless on the ground. Only the repeated assurances of Garm had later convinced her that he had indeed survived that mauling.
'There've been no ill effects? Nothing broken?'
'He didn't look bad when I last saw him. Still weak, of course.'
Not until she had satisfied anxiety for Mark, did Margaret revert to the problem of this man's presence.
'How is it you are not a prisoner?' she asked.
'But I am. I've been in here more than four years.'
'No, I mean why are you here? How did you get out of the prison caves?'
'They let me out—they don't think I can do any harm.'
'Only you?'
'Yes, only me.'
Margaret frowned. Was he being deliberately evasive, or merely stupid? He didn't look stupid. She tried again.
'But why should they let you out? I thought they kept all prisoners in there always.'
'Except you? Yes, that is so. But I was able to do them a good turn. We made a bargain. They were to let me have the run of these caves if I did what they wanted.'