Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [95]
“Confound it, Enid, I didn’t swear,” Donald protested. “I was tempted to, but I didn’t.”
Enid turned her back on him and pulled Ramses close to her. “Come with Enid, poor lad; she will tidy you and protect you from this bully.”
Ramses’ face was pressed against her impeccable shirtwaist—impeccable, I mean to say, until that moment—but I could see his cheek and one corner of his mouth. The latter feature was curved in an insufferable smirk. He allowed himself to be led away, with every appearance of enjoying the sort of embrace he would ordinarily have protested.
Displaying hands almost as filthy as those of Ramses, Donald also went to wash. If he hoped to plead his case with Enid, he was given no opportunity, for she came back almost at once, clasping Ramses’ hand. His face and hands at least were clean, and realizing that only total immersion would restore him to a semblance of decency, I allowed him to take his tea with us, providing he sat some distance from the table. Owing to the nutrients contained in it, Nile mud has a particularly pungent and pervasive smell.
Nor did Donald linger over his toilette. He had been wearing Arab dress over his shirt and trousers; the removal of the robe removed the worst of the mud and he had taken time to pass a brush over his waving locks. After he had joined us I invited him to tell us what had happened and to provide us with the name of the person who had attempted to assassinate Ramses.
“As you must know, from your calm tone, Mrs. Emerson, it was an accident,” he replied. “Brought on in large part by Master Ramses himself. We had gone down to the canal and were talking with the women who were washing clothes—at least Ramses was. By the way, your son has an appalling familiarity with certain Arabic idioms. . . . While we were there, we heard gunfire some little distance off. Before I could stop him, Ramses had mounted his donkey and was going hell-bent for leather—I beg your pardon—riding rapidly in the direction from which the shots had come. I caught up with him after a while and explained that it was ill-advised to blunder into a shooting blind. We had a little discussion. He persuaded me—fool that I am!—to go closer, in order to observe the shooting. We—er—we had made quite a lot of noise, and I did not doubt the hunters knew we were there, but in order to be perfectly safe I called out again. A great flock of pigeons were wheeling and preparing to settle; it was clear that the rifles would be aimed in that direction, and since we were approaching from the west, I thought I had taken every possible precaution—”
“It sounds as if you had,” I observed, pouring him another cup of tea. “I presume Ramses ran out into the line of fire.”
Donald nodded. “Shouting at the top of his lungs and waving his hat. Naturally the birds took alarm and flew off—”
“Which was precisely my intention,” exclaimed Ramses. “You know my sentiments about blood sports, Mama; killing for food or in self-defense is one thing, but the slaughter of helpless fauna for the sake of simply counting the number of the slain is a process I cannot—”
“Your sentiments on that subject are known to me, Ramses,” said Emerson. “But, dear boy—”
“Don’t scold him,” Enid begged. “The gallant little fellow was not thinking of his own safety. His action was reckless but noble! I might have done the same thing had I been there, for I share his abhorrence of men who find a perverse pleasure in killing.”
This statement was obviously directed at Donald, who flushed painfully. He got no chance to defend himself, for Enid continued to praise and admire Ramses, whose smug expression was really enough to try the patience of a saint. In a typical Ramsesian effort to show appreciation for her spirited defense, he offered to give her a lesson in hieroglyphic—the highest compliment in his power—and