Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [37]
Walter did not recognize us immediately. He saw only two European travelers, and ran toward us with increased speed. Not until he was almost upon us did he realize who we were; and he stopped so abruptly that a spurt of sand shot up from under his heels. We continued to trot decorously toward him as he stood swaying and staring like a man in a dream.
“Thank God you are here!” he exclaimed, before we could greet him. “That is… you are really here? You are not a vision, or a mirage?”
His eyes were fixed on Evelyn’s face; but his agitation was so great I deduced some other cause of trouble than frustrated love.
“We are really here,” I assured him. “What is wrong, Mr. Walter?”
“Emerson. My brother.” The lad passed his hand across his damp forehead. “He is ill. Desperately, dangerously ill… You have no doctor with you, of course. But your dahabeeyah—you could take him to Cairo… ?”
His brother’s danger and Evelyn’s unexpected appearance had turned the poor boy’s brains to mush. I realized that I must take charge.
“Run back to the boat and get my medical kit, Michael,” I said. “Hurry, please. Now, Mr. Walter, if you will lead the way…”
“A doctor…” mumbled Walter, still looking at Evelyn as if he didn’t believe in her.
“You know there is no doctor nearer than Cairo,” I said. “Unless I see Mr. Emerson, I cannot tell whether he is fit to be moved. It would take days to get him to Cairo. Lead on, Mr. Walter.”
I jabbed him with my parasol. He started, turned, and began to run back in the direction from which he had come. The donkeys, aroused by my voice, broke into a trot. Skirts flying, parasols waving, we dashed forward, followed by a cloud of sand.
Emerson had situated himself in one of the tombs that had been dug into the rock wall of the hills bounding the plain. The entrances looked like black rectangles against the sunbaked rock. We had to climb the last few yards, along a sort of path that led up the cliff. Walter devoted himself to Evelyn; the donkey attendants would have helped me, but I swatted them off with my parasol. I needed no assistance. I was panting a trifle when I finally reached the entrance to the tomb, but it was—yes, I confess it—it was with agitation rather than exertion.
The lintel and jambs of the entrance were covered with carved reliefs. I had no time for them then; I entered. Once inside, I cast a quick, comprehensive glance about, and understood why Emerson had chosen to take up his abode in the resting place of the ancient dead, rather than pitch a tent. The room was long and narrow—a passageway, as I later discovered, rather than a chamber. The far end was lost in shadow, but diffused sunlight illuminated the area next to the entrance. Wooden packing cases served as tables. Some were covered with tins of food, others with books and papers. A lamp showed how the room was lighted by night. A few folding camp chairs were the only other pieces of furniture, save for two camp beds. On one lay the motionless form of a man.
He lay so still that horror gripped me; I thought for a moment that we had come too late. Then an arm was flung out and a hoarse voice muttered something. I crossed the room and sat down on the floor by the cot.
I would not have known him. The beard, which had been confined to lower cheeks and jaw, spread upward in a black stubble that almost met his hairline. His eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stood out like spars. I had no need to touch him to realize that he was burning with fever. Heat fairly radiated from his face. His shirt had been opened,