Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [59]
I doubt that any admonitions of mine could have prevented the accident; in any case, I was too out of breath to shout. I was still ten feet away when François grabbed Justin by the shoulders and tugged at him. Emerson held on. The boy’s head flopped back and forth and his hat fell off. He was still writhing and screaming. François let him go and caught Emerson by the throat. The three became a Laocoön-like group of intertwined bodies and flailing limbs. Emerson broke away, realizing, as he later explained, that the combat was likely to injure the boy; but as he stepped back he fell headlong and rolled down the slope in an avalanche of broken stones.
Crying out in alarm, the others of our party ran toward the foot of the hill, with Selim in the lead. A quick look showed me that Emerson was standing up, despite the attempts of the others to restrain him. A string of expletives and complaints, loudly uttered, assured me that his vocal powers at least were unimpaired. Anxious as I was to lend my assistance, I did not feel I could leave the boy. However, he had come out of his fit and was calmly brushing himself off. He gave me a puzzled smile.
“What has happened to Mr. Emerson?” he inquired innocently.
“He fell,” I replied. “I think your attendant tripped him.”
“Shame on you, François,” Justin exclaimed. “You should not have done that. It was wrong.”
“He was hurting you,” the fellow muttered.
“Was he? I don’t think so; he seems to be a very kind man. I hope he is not injured.”
“So do I,” I said, giving François a long hard look.
It would have been impossible for François to look harmless, but he did appear somewhat subdued. “It was an accident,” he mumbled. “I did not mean to harm him. But no one touches the young master.”
“I am going to touch him now,” I said firmly. “Take my hand, Justin, and we will go down together. Stay well back, François, we don’t want another accident, do we?”
The boy slipped his hand confidingly into mine and let me lead him back down the path. He was a few inches taller than I, but slimmer. The brief violent interlude had been forgotten; his countenance was, if anything, complacent.
“You should not have gone up there, Justin,” I said.
“I wanted to see the tombs.”
“That could be even more dangerous than the path. Some of the shafts are open; a tumble into one of them would hurt you badly. Promise me you will not go there again.”
“Can I see the temple, then? It is a temple to Hathor. She is a beautiful goddess, like the other Mrs. Emerson. Does she ever come there?”
With a slight shock I realized he was not speaking of Nefret.
“No, I don’t think she does, Justin.”
“The dragoman said she does. On the night of the full moon. He has seen her and so have some of his friends.”
I promised myself a word with that gentleman. He had no business putting such notions into the boy’s head. It might be advisable to have a word with Mrs. Fitzroyce as well. How could she entrust her young grandson to a villainous character like François? Devoted he undoubtedly was, but his judgment left something to be desired. In some ways he was as deficient in sense as Justin.
Emerson came stalking to meet us. Fearing that he might renew the combat, I interposed my person between him and François.
“Well, you are a sight,” I said, inspecting him. “Another shirt . . . not only your shirt this time, you have torn the knees out of your trousers.”
“Better my trousers than my head,” said Emerson. “As you see, my dear, I am relatively unscathed. Is the boy all right?”
Justin shrank back. “He is bleeding. I don’t like blood.”
Fearing, from the boy’s alarmed expression, that he was in danger of falling into another fit, I forced a laugh.
“He is not badly hurt, Justin.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Emerson heartily. “In a tumble of that sort, the trick is to shield one’s head, and roll, rather than—”
“We don’t need a lecture on tumbling,