Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [67]
And then there was a moan—or at least, a faint sound of some kind. The reader can only faintly imagine the horrific effect of such a sound—of sound of any sort—in those dark, musty rooms that had never been inhabited except by the dead. Before my scalp had time to prickle, the fainter sound was followed by another, less ghostly, but even more alarming. It was a loud crash of falling rock. Whatever the sound lost by reason of distance was regained by the rolling echoes. I started and dropped my candle.
Using language no lady could possibly remember, much less reproduce, Emerson scrabbled around in the debris that littered the floor until he found the candle. He relighted it from his own. Then he looked directly at me and spoke in the quiet voice he employed in moments of emergency.
“You are no fool, Peabody, if you are a woman. You know what that sound may mean. Are you prepared? You will not swoon, or scream, or become hysterical?”
I gave him a look of withering scorn, and in silence started out of the room.
With Emerson breathing heavily behind me, I made my way along the corridor. I did not expect that we would meet with any obstruction there. The walls and floors were carved from the living stone of the mountains. No; the difficulty would be at the entrance, and long before we reached that spot I knew that my surmise was unhappily correct. From the foot of the final stair I saw that the light which should have been apparent at the entrance was—not apparent.
We made our way up the stairs, not without difficulty, for rocks littered the steps, and stood at last before the entrance. The narrow opening was closed by stones—some as small as pebbles, some as large as boulders.
I blew out my candle. It was obvious that we had better conserve what little light we had. I was stooping to pluck at the rocks when Emerson turned to stick his candle onto a ledge in a pool of its own grease.
“Take care,” he said curtly. “You may start another landslide that will sweep both of us down the stairs.”
We dug for a long time; not as long as it seemed, perhaps, but the first candle was almost burned out when there came a sound from without. It was, to say the least, a welcome event. At first the words were indistinguishable. Then I realized that the person was speaking Arabic. I recognized the voice and, in the stress of the moment, understood what was being said. The voice was Abdullah’s. He demanded to know if we were within.
“Of course we are within,” shouted Emerson angrily. “Oh, son of a blind, bowlegged mule, where else should we be?”
A howl, which I took to be one of delight, followed this question. The howl was followed by a shout in quite another voice: “Hold on, Miss Amelia! Lucas is on the job!”
All at once Emerson threw his arms against me and pushed me against the wall, pressing his body close to mine.
Although I am now alone as I write, my Critic having gone off on an errand, I hesitate to express the thoughts that flashed through my mind at that moment. I knew Emerson was no weakling, but I had not fully realized his strength until I felt the rigid muscles of his breast against mine and felt my bones give under the strength of his grasp. I thought… I expected… Well, why not admit it? I thought he was embracing me—relief at our unexpected rescue having weakened his mind.
Luckily these absurd notions had no time to burgeon in my brain. A horrible rattling crash followed, as the barricade gave way, and great rocks bounded down the stairs and banged against the walls. I felt Emerson flinch and knew he had been struck