“Stop that, Molly!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “You are to come down at once, do you hear?”

She heard. She stopped and looked down. Nefret made a lunge for her, and then… I could not see what happened; I only saw Nefret lose her balance and fall. There was nothing to stop her; followed by a long plume of sand and broken stone, she rolled all the way to the ground. The child’s scream of laughter changed to quite another sort of scream.

I hastened at once to where my daughter lay on her side in a tumble of loosened golden hair and twisted limbs, but I was not the first to reach her. When I joined him Ramses had brushed the sand from her face. His fingers were stained with blood. “Your canteen,” he said, and took it from me.

“Don’t move her,” I cautioned.

“No. Nefret?” He poured the water in a steady stream, bathing her eyes and mouth first. She stirred, murmuring, and Ramses said, “Lie still. You fell. Is anything broken?”

Woolley and Lawrence hurried up. “Shall I go for a doctor?” the latter inquired. “Bound to be one, in that gaggle of tourists.”

“I am a doctor,” Nefret said, without opening her eyes. “Is Molly all right?”

“She is coming down by herself, quite competently,” I said, looking round.

She had selected a nice smooth slope of sand and was descending in a sitting position, and—to judge by her expression—quite enjoying herself. However, as soon as she reached the ground and saw Nefret, she began to cry out.

“I’ve killed her! It’s my fault! Oh, I am sorry, I am sorry!”

She ran toward us and would have flung herself down on Nefret had not Ramses intercepted her. She clung to him, weeping bitterly. “I didn’t mean to! Is she dead? I am sorry!”

“So you damned well should be,” said Ramses. He shoved her away. “Woolley, take her back to the Poynters.”

“Don’t be unkind to the child.” Cautiously Nefret stretched her limbs, one after the other, and sat up. A trickle of crimson laced her cheek, from a cut on her temple. “I’m not hurt, Molly. No bones broken, and no concussion,” she added, giving me a shaky but reassuring smile.

Ramses bent and lifted her up into his arms. I thought she stiffened a little; then she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He started back toward the tomb, but he had not gone more than a few steps when he was met by Emerson, who must have been told of the incident by one of the onlookers. My husband was in an extreme state of agitation and dishevelment. He snatched Nefret out of his son’s grasp and pressed her to his broad breast.

“Good God! You should not have lifted her! She is bleeding—unconscious—”

“No, sir, I’m not unconscious,” Nefret said out of the corner of her mouth. “But you are covered with sand, and it is getting in my eyes.”

“Take her back to the shelter,” I directed. “She is only a bit shaken up.”

“She is bleeding, I tell you,” Emerson shouted, squeezing her even more tightly. Both corners of her mouth were now pressed against his shirtfront, but I heard a stifled giggle and a murmur of reassurance.

“Head wounds always bleed copiously,” I said. “Don’t just stand there, Emerson, go on.”

I then turned my attention to Molly. She looked so woebegone and guilty, my annoyance faded. After all, she had intended no harm, and no real harm had been done. I took her hand and led her toward the shelter. She went unresisting, head bowed and eyes downcast.

“It was an accident,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

“You are becoming repetitive,” I informed her. “If you regret your actions you can best show it by returning at once to Cairo with the Poynters.”

The Poynters would have lingered, but I gave them no excuse to do so. Once they had departed, and Woolley and Lawrence had gone on their way, I bathed Nefret’s head and was about to apply iodine to the cut when she requested I use alcohol instead.

“That rusty red clashes horribly with the color of my hair,” she explained. “Thank you, Aunt Amelia, that will do nicely. Now shall we all get back to work?”

“You should return to the house and rest,” Emerson said anxiously. “What happened?”

“I tripped,” Nefret said. “She was playing a little game of tag, skipping away from me and laughing, and somehow our feet got tangled up. I am perfectly recovered, and I know, Professor, you are dying to get back to your statue.”

She took his arm and smiled up at him.

I waited until they were out of earshot before I turned to my son.

“Are you all right?”

He started. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you hurt yourself? You ought not have carried her.”

“I did not hurt myself.”

“Is your arm painful?”

“Yes. I expect it will be painful for a while. It is functional, however, and that is the main thing. He hasn’t turned up yet. Are you certain he is coming?”

I knew to whom Ramses referred. I said calmly, “I don’t see how he can fail to respond. I sent similar invitations to a good many other people, but he must know that I had a particular reason for asking him. It is early yet. He will come.”

I no longer wonder how the pyramids could have been built with the simplest of tools. The way the men went about raising our statue demonstrated the skill and strength their ancestors must have employed on similar projects. As they continued to deepen the shaft and the statue was gradually freed of the sand that had blanketed it all those years, the danger of its toppling over increased. If it had struck against the stone wall it might have been chipped or even broken. Emerson was determined that this should not happen. The top half of the statue was now tightly wrapped in rugs and canvas and any other fabric he had been able to find; ropes enclosed the bundle, and several of our strongest workers held other ropes that would, we hoped, prevent it from tipping over.

It was a fascinating process, but I knew I could not allow archaeological fever to distract me from other duties. By early afternoon the crowd of spectators had increased. Some of them had cameras, and they kept on trying to take photographs, despite the fact that—thanks to my efforts—they were too far distant to get anything except a group of Egyptian workmen. I had to bustle busily about, since none of our skilled men could be spared to assist me, and I began to feel like an unhappy teacher trying to control a group of very active, very naughty children. At last I resorted to a clever stratagem. Mounting a fallen block of stone, I gathered most of the tourists to me and delivered a little lecture, stressing the delicacy of the operation and promising them they would get an opportunity to take all the photographs they liked once the statue was out. Strictly speaking, it was not a lie, since I did not specify what they could photograph. I try to avoid falsehood unless it is absolutely necessary.

As I spoke—shouted, rather—I scanned the faces of the spectators. A number of the people I had invited had turned up, as well as a number of those I had not. I thought I caught a glimpse of Percy among the group of military persons who had come from the camp near Mena House, but I could not be certain; the individual in question was surrounded by tall Australians.

I was beginning to be a bit anxious about Russell when finally I beheld him. Like several of the tourists, he was on camelback, but his easy pose and expert handling of the beast did not at all resemble the ineffectual performance of the amateurs. I looked round for Ramses, and found him at my elbow.

“Father thought you might need some assistance in controlling the mob,” he explained.

“I certainly do,” I replied, taking a firmer grip on my parasol and glaring at a stout American person who was trying to edge past me. He retreated in some alarm before Russell’s camel. All camels have evil tempers, and the large stained teeth of this one were bared by curling lips. It knelt, grumbling, and Russell dismounted and removed his hat.