Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [115]
An indignant exclamation from Evelyn interrupted this long-drawn-out piece of braggadocio. The relief of hearing her voice, weak as it was, almost made me collapse.
“If he had not been wounded, and drugged as well, you would never have overcome him,” she cried. “What have you done to him? He lies so still…. Please let me see how he is injured. Unless—oh, heaven!—he is not—he cannot be—”
Emerson’s shoulder, pressed against mine, jerked convulsively, but he did not move.
“No, no,” Evelyn’s tormentor replied, in a horrid parody of sympathy. “The brave young hero is not dead. But why you sorry? Soon you both be dead. You die together, like Aida and Radames in the beautiful opera of Signor Verdi. I thank my genius compatriot for this idea—so romantic. Together, in the tomb, in the arms of each other.” His voice changed; he sounded like a sulky boy as he added, “Luigi say, kill you. Me, to kill? Always the bad job for me; Luigi too much gentleman to make hands dirty. So, I leave you here. I am gentleman too; I do not kill woman. At least I not do it often. Not woman who once I held in my—”
This was too much for Emerson, who was quivering like a boiler about to blow up. With a roar, he erupted into the lighted chamber. I need not say that I was close on his heels.
The first thing I saw was Evelyn’s pallid face, streaked with dust and tears, her eyes fairly bulging out of her head as she saw me. The first sound I heard was her cry of “Amelia!” as she collapsed in a swoon of relief and joy.
The poor child was huddled on the littered floor, her hands bound behind her, her pretty hair all tangled and dusty. I lifted her up, and watched complacently as Emerson finished choking Alberto. Yes; the Mummy, the confederate of Lucas-Luigi, the abductor of Evelyn, was none other than her erstwhile lover, whose relationship to her scheming cousin had been made plain by his own boasts. I think that of the two he was the worst; I didn’t feel the slightest inclination to interfere as his face turned purple and his flailing hands dropped limply.
Emerson dropped him with a thud and turned to his brother. Walter was lying in the opposite corner, bound hand and foot; he was unconscious, and a darkening bruise on his brow showed how the villain had struck him down. Evelyn came back to consciousness in time to hear Emerson proclaim, in ringing tones, “He is alive! He is not seriously injured!” Whereupon she fainted again, and I had quite a time bringing her around.
The journey back was long and arduous, but it did not seem so to us; our hearts were overflowing with happiness increased by the knowledge that we had left Alberto bound and gagged in the tomb where he had intended to entomb Evelyn and Walter. The last thing I remember seeing as we left was the mummy costume lying limp and harmless on the floor. It seemed absurd when I looked at it closely that it could have frightened anyone. The head mask was made in a separate piece, the joint being covered by strips of bandaging. And the suit itself buttoned neatly up the front.
II
Two years have passed since the events of which I have written—two years full of thrilling events, both personal and historic. Emerson’s fears for the gallant Gordon were, alas, justified; he was horribly murdered in January, before the expeditionary force arrived. But the cause for which he died was not lost; the mad Mahdi himself died the same year, and our forces are beating back the insurgents. My friend