The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [57]
“Curse it,” he said; and would have said more, no doubt, but dizziness overcame him; his eyes rolled up, his head fell back, and he would have collapsed again had I not flung my arms about him and cradled his head on my breast.
“How many times have I told you that you must not move suddenly after receiving a blow on the head?” I demanded.
“I hope you have not had occasion to offer that advice frequently,” said Mr. Vandergelt. He proffered his handkerchief.
Believe me, reader, I did not mistake his coolness for callousness. Like myself, he had observed that the missile had only grazed Emerson’s cranium in passing. I admire a man of that temperament; I gave him a quick, approving smile before I accepted the handkerchief and applied it to Emerson’s head. The stubborn man was beginning to struggle, attempting to rise.
“Lie still,” I said sharply, “or I will have Mr. Milverton sit on your legs.”
Mr. Milverton gave me a startled look. Fortunately the expedient I had proposed was not necessary. Emerson relaxed, and I was able to lower his head onto my lap. At this point, as things were calming down, Lady Baskerville created a new sensation.
“The woman in white!” she shrieked. “I saw her— there—”
Mr. Vandergelt reached her just in time to catch her as she fainted. If I were an evil-minded woman, I would have suspected she delayed her collapse long enough to give him time.
“I will go for a doctor,” Mr. Milverton exclaimed.
“There is no need,” I replied, pressing the handkerchief against the gash on Emerson’s temple. “The cut is superficial. There is a possibility of a mild concussion, but I can deal with that.”
Emerson’s eyes opened. “Amelia,” he croaked, “remind me to tell you, when I am feeling a little stronger, what I think of your—”
I covered his lips with my hand. “I know, my dear,” I said soothingly. “You need not thank me.”
Now at ease with regard to Emerson’s condition, I could turn my attention to Lady Baskerville, who was draped becomingly over Mr. Vandergelt’s arm. Her eyes were closed; her long black hair had broken free of its pins and hung in a dark, shining waterfall, almost touching the floor. For the first time since we had met, Mr. Vandergelt looked mildly disconcerted, though he held the lady’s limp form to his breast with considerable fervor.
“Put her on the couch,” I said. “It is only a faint.”
“Mrs. Emerson, just look at this,” said Karl.
In his outstretched hand he held the projectile that had inflicted so much damage. At first I thought it was only a rough-hewn rock, approximately eight inches in diameter. A shudder passed through my body as I contemplated what might have occurred if it had struck its target squarely. Then Karl turned the rock over, and I found myself staring into a human face.
The eyes were deep-set, the chin unnaturally long, the lips curved in a strange, enigmatic smile. Traces of blue paint still marked the helmet-shaped headdress—the Battle Crown of an Egyptian pharaoh. I had seen that peculiar physiognomy before. It was, in fact, as familiar to me as the face of an old friend.
“Khuenaton!” I exclaimed.
In my excitement I had forgotten that this—among other archaeological terms—would have aroused Emerson from a deep coma, much less a bump on the head. Casting off my hand, which I had kept absentmindedly pressed to his lips, he sat up and snatched the carved head from Karl’s hand.
“That is wrong, Amelia,” he said. “You know Walter believes the name should be read Akhenaton, not Khuenaton.”
“He will always be Khuenaton to me,” I replied, giving him a meaningful look as I recalled the days of our first acquaintance in the derelict city of the heretic pharaoh.