n a red glimmer across the grain marked the location of a
farmer's hut, but there was no other sign of life. Even at the
Memphian shore there was little activity.

When the line of cultivation ended Kenkenes knew he was in the
precincts of the Marsh of the Discontented Soul. He rowed across what
he believed to be one-half of its width and drew into the reeds. The
sound and movement awoke many creatures, which hurried away in the
dark, and something slid off into the river with a splash. The lapping
of the ripples sounded like a drinking beast. Kenkenes put a bold foot
on the soggy sand and stepped out. Rachel followed him with bated
breath. Anubis unceremoniously mounted his shoulder. He dragged the
bari far up on the shore, once more lifted Deborah and started up the
warm sand.

At the base of the limestone cliff he deposited his burden and brought
together a little heap of dried reeds and flag blades. This he fired
after many failures by striking together his chisel and a stone.
Rachel hid the blaze from the Nile while he made and lighted a torch of
twisted reeds and stamped out the fire. In the feeble moonlight he
discerned a stairway of rough-hewn steps leading into a cavity in the
wall. The southern side of the ascent was sheltered by an outstanding
buttress of rock.

He put the torch into Rachel's hand, and, taking up Deborah, climbed a
dozen steps to a dark opening half-closed by a fallen door. Pushing
the obstruction aside with his foot, he entered. When they were all
within he closed the entrance and unrolled the reeds.

There was a helter-skelter of mice past them and a rustle of retiring
insects. The torch blazed brightly and showed him a squat copper lamp
on the floor of the outer chamber. The vessel contained sandy dregs of
oil and a dirty floss of cotton. With an exclamation of surprise
Kenkenes lighted the wick, and after a little sputtering, it burned
smokily.

"Nay, now, how came a lamp in this tomb?" he asked without expecting an
answer.

The chamber was low-roofed and small--the whole interior rough with
chisel-marks. To the eyes of the sculptor, accustomed to the gorgeous
frescoes in the tombs of the Memphian necropolis, the walls looked bare
and pitiful. There were several prayers in the ancient hieroglyphics,
but no ancestral records or biographical paintings. Several strips of
linen were scattered over the floor, with the customary litter of dried
leaves, dust, refuse br