"Don't strip him of his romance yet," said I, again torn between interest in Monny's incredible statement, and excitement which grew with the growing in size of those flags on the horizon. "You may wrong him. If you saw only the _first_ part of the letter--"

"There could be no mistake. It was in hieroglyphics, and who but 'Antoun' would have written such a letter to Aunt Clara? She asked me to translate it, the night she dug it up at Fustat--"

"Dug--"

"And when I'd read as far as, 'Beautiful Queen, Star of my Heart, be my wife,' she s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper away, and put it inside her dress, saying she'd look up the rest in one of my books."

"Good heavens! You must have changed places at Fustat. That letter couldn't have been for her!"

"It couldn't have been for any one else. 'Beautiful Queen' meant Queen Cleopatra. She said so herself. I don't know what she's going to do about it."

"Do about it?" I echoed desperately. "Why--" and just then my straining eyes saw that on the middle flag in the fluttering row were four large red letters on a white ground. Slaney had betrayed me! Everything depended on getting that flag down before those letters declared themselves to other eyes. "Excuse me," I finished my sentence with a gasp.

Monny must have gasped also, as she saw me suddenly dash away from her at full speed of one-camel power. But I had no time to think about what she might think. I suppose I must have done something to the steering-gear of that camel, which coastguard camels do not permit. Whatever it was, it got me into the midst of camp before I could draw breath; but I have a dim recollection of being caught by Arab arms, and seeing suppressed Arab grins, as mechanically I felt to see how far the end of my spine stuck out at the top of my head.

"That flag! Pull it down!" was my first gasp, pointing convulsively to the banner which shrieked, "Cook!" "Quick--before they come!"

Dazed by my vehemence, several Arabs scuttled to obey the order, but there were too many of them. Each hindered his neighbour, and as I danced about, making matters worse, out pounced our withered chef from the kitchen-tent.

"It was _he_ brought that flag, wrapped round something," explained one of the men, in Arabic. "When he saw we had other flags, but none of Cook, he gave it to us to put over the biggest tent, because he thought it shameful to have no flag of the master's."

"Cook isn't the master. I'm it," I burbled, with a leap to catch the tell-tale square of white as it reluctantly came down. But I was too late. Sir John Biddell and Harry Snell, the newspaper man, came gallumping up on their camels before I could stuff the flag into my pocket.

"What's the matter?" they asked, as their animals squatted to let them down. "Were you run away with? What are you so mad about? Hullo! What flag's that--C-O-O-K!"

"It should be over the kitchen-tent," I heard myself explaining. "Don't you see? C-O-O-K! It's the cook's special flag. He brought it himself, but these chaps went and flew it over the dining-tent in place of the Union Jack. That's why he and I are mad."

And I thanked all the stars on Monny's tent flag that none of the Set understood Arabic.

After this, how could I hope to explain to Monny that the hieroglyphic proposal was mine, and that she, not Cleopatra, ought to have dug it up? She isn't a girl used to having men run away from her, on camelback or anything else--so naturally she thought me a rude beast, and showed it. Besides, even if I'd dared, I should have had no chance to straighten matters out; for though the flag-episode was after all no fault of Slaney's, there were a few little things which had escaped even his Napoleonic memory; and it was only by combining the feats of an acrobat with those of a juggler that I saved my reputation during the next half hour.

No sight could have been more beautiful in our eyes than that village of white tents in the waste of yellow sand. Our wildest imaginings could have pictured nothing more perfect, more peaceful.

Tea was ready, in the huge dining-tent, where folding chairs were grouped round a white-covered table. The floor of sand was hidden with thick, bright-coloured rugs, and it was finding "T. C. and Son" on the wrong side of one which Miss Ha.s.sett-Bean's foot turned up, that filled me with renewed alarms. Hastily I laid the rug straight, placed a chair upon it, and persuaded everybody to have tea before inspecting their bedroom tents. While they drank draughts and dabbed jam on an Egyptian conception of scones, I hurried like a haggard ghost from tent to tent, seeking the forbidden thing. Cook on the backs of the little mirrors hanging from the pole hooks!... Will it wash off?... No! Cut it out with a penknife! Down on your knees and tear off the label from the wrong side of another carpet! (Memo: Must do the one in the dining-tent when the people are asleep for the night.) Cram three Cook towels into my pockets. Hastily pin a handkerchief over the name on a white bit of a tent wall. Must have it cut out, and patched with something, later.

Shall have to pay damages when I settle up with Slaney. Lady Macbeth wasn't in it with me! All she needed was a little water. I have to have pins and penknives and pockets all over the place.

I didn't get any tea. But that was a detail. And everybody was so delighted with everything that my spirits rose, despite a snub or two from Monny--for which Biddy tried to make up. People took desert strolls, or sat on dunes, and gazed into the sunset which couldn't have been better if I had turned it on myself. Along the western horizon ran a pale flame of green blending with rose, rose blending with amethyst, and in the distance the Pyramids of Dahshur burned with the red of pigeon-blood rubies.

The wind had died among the desert dunes, and it was not till after dinner that any one realized the arctic fall of temperature. It was too cold to enjoy playing bridge or any of the games I had brought; and the only hope of comfort was in bed. People said good night to each other in the comparatively warm dining-tent, and then gave surprised shrieks or grunts (according to s.e.x) at the piercing cold. Several of the elder ladies fell over ten-tropes, despite the large lanterns illuminating the desert, and had to be escorted to their bedroom tents, and soothed.

After this, silence reigned for a few minutes, and I had stealthily begun to work on the biggest rug-label, when arose a clamour of voices and presently appeared the dragoman lent by Slaney.

"Eight ladies wishing hot-water bottles," he explained.

But there were no hot-water bottles. We had thought of everything, it seemed, except hot-water bottles.

"I tell them very sorry but can't have?" Yusef suggested, looking pleased.

"Let me think!" I groaned. "What about the mineral water bottles we emptied at lunch and dinner? Let the cook boil water, and we'll supply the bottles."

This was done; and I was proud of the inspiration, with the pride that comes before a fall. When I began to write, in my bedroom tent, wrapped in all the blankets of the bed that should be Anthony's, I had the place to myself. But about midnight a head was unexpectedly thrust through the door-flap. It looked ghostly in the haze of colour made by the gorgeous applique work of high roof and octagon walls, which gave an effect of sitting at the bottom of a giant kaleidoscope.

"Who's that?" I hissed, in a whisper meant to be discreet, but which roused a camel or two in the ring outside the tents.

"Biddell--Sir John Biddell," replied the head. "I saw your light, and remembered you had your tent to yourself to-night. Those hot-water bottles have been leaking. There's one at least gone wrong in most of the ladies' tents. The married men have given their beds to girls who are drowned out. 'Twas _your_ idea about those bottles, wasn't it? I expect you'll hear from it in the morning! Three of us want to come and camp in here with you."

"All right," I sighed, with a sinking heart. "I _like_ sitting up, and you can toss for the cots."

At this moment Sir John Biddell reposes in one of them, General Harlow in the other. These gentlemen were so affected with the cold that they went to bed in their clothes, then got up to put on their overcoats, then got up again and put on their hats. On the floor lies a certain Mills of Manchester, rolled in all the rugs, except one which I have on, after surrendering my blankets. He has his head in a basket, to keep off the icy draught; and in the ruggy region of his spine, as he rests on his side, are the letters C-O-O-K. I wonder if I could rip them off without waking him up?

CHAPTER XV

THE DESERT DIARY TO ITS BITTER END

_Tuesday_: The princ.i.p.al water-cask has leaked; consequently not enough water to go round. Chef said it was a question of baths, or soup.

Considering the cold, most of the people voted for soup. Some washed in Apollinaris. Others douched with soda siphons. We can get more water to-night. Can't think why the north wind doesn't stop and warm itself while traversing the Mediterranean or the hot sands! It seems to be in too fierce a hurry and consequently cuts across the desert, like a frozen scythe, the moment its rival the sun has gone to sleep. I hear that Miss Ha.s.sett-Bean cried with cold as she dressed, and put on two of everything; but she is luckier than the younger women. Monny and Mrs. East, though warned that nights would be chill, have come clothed in silk and gossamer, and have brought low-necked nightgowns of nainsook trimmed with lace. This was confided to me soon after sunrise by a blue-nosed Biddy, hovering over the kitchen fire and --incidentally--ingratiating herself with the cook. It wouldn't be Biddy if she weren't ingratiating herself with some one!

n.o.body yearned to get up early (I speak for others, as _I_ pa.s.sed my night in the att.i.tude of a suspension bridge between two folding chairs); but in camp where sleep is concerned, men may propose, camels dispose.

Their nights they spend in a ring of camelhood, huddled together for warmth; and if they do not have nightmare or bite each other in their sleep, mere humans in neighbouring tents may hope for comparative silence in the desert, if not near a village full of pi-dogs. At sunrise, however, a change comes o'er their spirit. They are given food, and made as happy and contented as it is their nature to be, which apparently is not saying much. Judging by the strange, inarticulate oaths they constantly mutter, they are equally accursed in their sitting down and their getting up. It is only when they are actually "on the move," floating and swaying through the air--legs, tail, neck, jaws--that they have nothing disagreeable to say.

Immediately after dawn this morning, our camels began to imitate every animal they could have met since the days of the Ark, when one had to know everybody. They mewed like cats, hissed like snakes, bleated like sheep, roared like toy lions, grunted like pigs, barked like dogs, squawked like geese, and bellowed like baby bulls. Also they gargled their throats like elderly invalids. It was useless trying to sleep; and when I had accomplished such bathing as the chef permitted, I went out to see what was the matter. Nothing was the matter, except that the creatures had the sunrise in their eyes, and could see the camel-boys preparing their loads; but I was glad I had come out, because Biddy was there and the scene was beautiful. Shivering, we chuckled over the morning toilet of the camels, who turned their faces disconcertingly upon us, sneering with long yellow teeth, and bubbling as if their mouths were full of pink soapsuds, when they realized that we were laughing at them.

Incidentally we learned why the Baby Sphinx accompanied our caravan uninvited. His name is Salih; and he came because there's a very important camel (the property of his father) who refuses to eat or stir without him. It is a most original and elaborate camel. It has a neat way of turning its ears with their backs to the wind, in order to make them sand-proof. If any person other than Salih touches it, an incredible quant.i.ty of green cud is instantly let loose over their turbans; but at the approach of Salih it emits a purring noise, preens its head for the nose-strap ornamented with a bunch of palmlike plumes, and playfully pretends not to want the bersim which the little black Sphinx thrusts down its throat in handfuls. This, it seems, is good camel table-manners. And it is to the tail of this animal that Salih clings on the march. If he is not there, the animal looks round, stops, or turns to charge at any Arab who jestingly misuses its idol.

Yesterday the miniature Sphinx was in a white robe. To-day he is in black. All the Arabs have changed their clothes, although they have brought no visible luggage except vague pieces of sacking. The dragoman is exquisitely arrayed, galabeah and kaftan gray-blue, with a pink petticoat, and a white one under that. I suspect that he sleeps beneath the dining-table--and the other Arabs among the kitchen pots--yet they are smarter than any of us Europeans, all of whom have a frayed air.

This, I suppose, would not be so in desert-fiction. Nothing would be said about hot-water bottles leaking, or beetles beetling (one doesn't come to Egypt to see live scarabs), or draughts raging, or camels gobbling, or flags flapping all night. (Memo: Abolish flags, even at expense of patriotism.)

Despite every desert drawback, however, Biddy and I agreed that the sunrise alone was worth the journey, and the pure air of dawn which, though cold, seemed perfumed by mysterious rose-fields. Just at sun-up the desert was lily pale--then, as the horizon flamed, a dazzling flood of gold poured over the dunes. The sun was a fantastic brooch of beaten copper, caught in a veil of ruby gauze, while here and there a belated star was a dull, flawed emerald sewn into the veil's fringe. Shadows swept westward across the desert like blue water, showing a glitter of drowned jewels underneath; and though last night it had seemed that we were alone in a vast wilderness, now there were signs that a village lay not far off. A group of children in red and blue, staring avidly at the camp, were like a bunch of ragged poppies in the sand. Their mangy pi-dogs had ventured nearer, to smell sadly at the meat-safes hanging outside our kitchen-tent. A gypsy-woman with splendid eyes and a blue tattooed chin, breakfasted on an adjacent dune with her husband. Men like living hencoops pa.s.sed in the distance. Patriarchal persons blew by, in that graceful way in which people do blow in Egypt, driving a flock of sheep, with a black lamb "for luck." These men were dressed as their ancestors had dressed in the time of Abraham, and Biddy and I envied them. How nice, said she, to wear the same clothes for a hundred years if you happened to live, and never be out of fashion. If a few of your things dropped off by degrees, you were still all right, and n.o.body would be rude enough to notice!

Our faded family revived after breakfast, and even those who vowed they hadn't closed an eye all night enjoyed the scene of striking camp. The big white tents fell to the ground like p.r.i.c.ked soap-bubbles; whereupon their remains were deftly rolled up and tied on to the backs of bitterly protesting camels. Beds, mattresses, tables, chairs ceased to be what they had been and became something else. Camels made faces and noises. Arabs tore this way and that, doing as little work as possible.

The cook fluttered about in his blanket, brandishing a saucepan. Yusef the dragoman made n.o.ble gestures of command, and our little desert city ceased to exist except on camels' backs. It was shaved off the surface of the earth, and went churning and swaying along toward the next stand; the procession rising and falling among swelling dunes, under a sky which seemed to trail like a heavy blue curtain, where at the horizon it met the gold.

We travelled over pebbly plateaus, scattered with jewel-like stones.

Sand-pyramids rose out of the glistening plain. Here and there were rocks like partly hewn sphinxes pushing out of the sand to breathe; other rocks like monstrous toads; and still others dark and dreadful in the distance as ogres' houses. Altogether the desert gave us a truly Libyan effect, which made the Set feel that after all they were getting what they had paid for, with an introduction to a beauty and heiress thrown in. But apropos of this latter boon, it is dawning upon me that Rachel Guest is receiving more attention than Monny. This strikes me as inexplicable. There are more men than women in our party, all young except Sir John Biddell, General Harlow, and Mills of Manchester, a soft, fat sort of fellow whose first name you can never remember. It occurred to me on starting, that the desire of so many unattached young men to spend a week in the desert and the Fayoum, might not be unconnected with Miss Gilder's intention to join the party. Not being jealous, I expected to see a little fun, and laugh over it with Biddy, who is a heavenly person with whom to share a joke. But if there is a joke, I haven't seen the point yet, nor has she. There's no disputing the fact that Miss Guest, the poor, brave school teacher on holiday, is the belle of the desert.

Of course, if Monny had stopped in Cairo, Rachel's success with our men wouldn't be astonishing. As Brigit and Monny warned me in their letters to the _Candace_, she grows better looking every day; but though she is distinctly of Monny's type, despite those slanting eyes, she will never be a real beauty, or a Complete Fascinator, like our Gilded Girl.

Besides, Monny has millions, and Rachel hasn't a cent. Yet there it is!

Miss Guest is having the "time of her life" in spite of leaky water bottles and b.u.mping camels, while Miss Gilder might be an old married woman, for all the attention she gets from any man on this trip except me. What can be the explanation? Even those two exaggerately German-looking men with Bedr stared at Rachel from their respectful distance. It turns out that they camped not far from us last night.

Yusef heard this from one of our camel-boys. But they kept to themselves, and didn't come within a mile of us, so there's nothing to complain of.

Every one except Sir John delighted with to-day's desert. He can't see anything beautiful in yellow lumps that keep you sawing up and down, though he has no doubt the desert is full of other fools doing what we're doing; and we could all see each other doing it if it weren't for those darn dunes.

_Later_: Adventure for sandcart on one of the biggest plateaus. Looked all right from the top; but a shriek from Mrs. East put me to the dire necessity of sliding off Farag and running to the rescue. The plateau was broken off in front and became a precipice which, Cleopatra seemed to think, would not have existed had "Antoun" arrived in tune to arrange it.