The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“Certainly, my dear. When I was a child my highest ambition was to be an acrobat in a fair. Are you sure you can do it?”
“You are a mere feather, my dear Peabody. And if you can be an acrobat, I can aspire to the position of circus strongman. Who knows, if we ever tire of archaeology we can turn to another profession.”
“Slowly, please, my dear.”
“But of course, Peabody.”
I believe I have had occasion to mention Emerson’s impressive muscular development, but never before had I realized the full extent of his strength. A gasp escaped my lips when I felt nothing but empty air under the soles of my boots, but my initial trepidation was quickly succeeded by a thrill of pure excitement. I heard Emerson’s breath catch and fancied I could almost hear his muscles crack. Slowly I rose higher. It was like flying—one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had.
I was afraid to tilt my head back in order to look up; the slightest movement might have destroyed the precarious balance Emerson and I were maintaining between us. When the upward movement finally ceased, there was nothing under my outstretched hands but the same cold, smooth stone. Emerson let out an inquiring grunt. I looked up.
“Three inches, Emerson. Can you—”
“Ugh,” Emerson said decidedly.
“Lower me, then. We shall have to think of something else.”
Going down was considerably less pleasant than going up. It was not only the consciousness of failure that weakened my knees, it was the ominous quivering of the arms that supported me. When my feet once more found secure footing on the brawny shoulders of my heroic spouse I leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath. It was as well I did so, for one of Emerson’s hands lost its grip and I feared we were both going to topple over backwards.
“Sorry, Peabody,” he said, taking a firmer hold. “Cramp.”
“Small wonder, my dear Emerson. Don’t bother to lower me, I will just let myself down bit by bit.”
Somehow he found strength enough to laugh. “I will play Saint Christopher and carry you back to the sarcophagus. Sit on my shoulders.”
After he had returned me to my seat he hoisted himself up beside me. We sat side by side, our feet dangling till Emerson got his breath back. “Have you still got the matchbox, Emerson?” I asked.
“You may be sure I have, Peabody. That little tin box is more precious to us now than gold.”
“Let me have it, then, and I will button it into my shirt pocket. Then, if you agree, I will blow out the candle. I only have the one, you see.”
He nodded, his face somber. The dark closed in upon us, but I did not mind; Emerson’s arm was around me and my head rested on his shoulder. For some time we did not speak. Then a sepulchral voice remarked, “We will die in one another’s arms, Peabody.”
He seemed to find this thought consoling. “Nonsense, my dear Emerson,” I said briskly. “Do not abandon hope. We have not yet begun to fight, as one of our heroes said.”
“I believe it was an American hero who said it, Peabody.”
“Irrelevant, my dear Emerson. It is the spirit of pluck I mean to conjure up.”
“But when I die, Peabody, I would like the condition I mentioned to prevail.”
“And I, my dearest Emerson. But I have no intention of dying for a long time. Let us turn our brains to the problem and see if we can’t think of a way out.”
“There is always the possibility of rescue,” Emerson said.
“You need not attempt to raise my spirits by false hopes, Emerson. To be sure, I did wonder why our kidnappers would carry us here instead of murdering us outright; but they knew our chance of escape was almost nil. They won’t come back. As for rescue from anyone else—to the best of my knowledge, no archaeologist has succeeded in locating the entrance. The villains will have filled in the hole they dug; do you suppose de Morgan can find it? He has no reason to look, for even after our disappearance is discovered, no one will think of searching for us here.”
“De Morgan is certainly the least likely