It was some time before he could bring back to his memory the events of the preceding day. When they recurred to him he felt most wretched. Had the bandits removed his father’s body, or was it still in the cave? Could he not snap the cords which bound him, and escape from that living tomb? “Hush!” Was that a human voice, or only the playful prank of a gust of wind? Max, madcap as he was, had learned wisdom. He was not going to fall into any trap, and so he did not speak. “Son of the morning, thou wilt die.” “Am I dreaming,” Max wondered, “or have I gone mad?” He raised his head, but his eyes could not penetrate the darkness. “Confound it!” he muttered, “this is Egyptian darkness with a vengeance.” “Dost thou want to die?” The question came out of the darkness and sounded afar off, yet Max could almost fancy that the breath of the speaker fanned his cheek. “Who is that speaks?” “Question not my name.” “Where am I?” “In the depths of the storehouse of the great Gizeh.” The answer was given in a low voice, almost as soft as a whisper. “Am I then under the pyramid?” “That is how thou wouldst express it.” “Will you aid me to escape?” “And thou wouldst destroy those who saved thee.” “Nay--thou art a woman.” “_Wah Illahi sahe!_” (By Allah, it is true.) “I would not harm thee.” “I can save thee if thou wilt swear by the beard of the prophet that thou wilt not seek revenge.” “The price is too great.” “And if thou refusest, death will be thy portion.” “Better death than dishonor,” said Max, in a grandiloquent tone, which sounded almost ridiculous in the dark, but which would have been the signal for a burst of applause from the gallery of a theater had an actor so uttered the words on a stage. All was still as the grave. He fancied his ankles and wrists were swelling as the cord cut into the flesh. His brain began to reel, and he almost wished for death. “Am I to die like this? Oh, it is horrible!” he moaned, aloud, as the agony of the thought took possession of his mind. “Help!” He shouted and the echo of the vault answered back mockingly: “Help!” He shouted again, but the only reply was the faint echo of his words. “I shall die,” he groaned. “Die,” said the echo, with taunting emphasis. His brain became frenzied, and he began to laugh with boisterous guffaws. It was the laughter of delirium and not of mirth. The echo answered back. The whole cave seemed peopled with laughing demons. “Fiends!” he shouted, and his head fell back with stunning force on the rock. When he recovered consciousness, a calmly sweet breath of air was blowing on his face. He was being fanned. He dare not speak for fear that the delicious breeze might cease. The fanning continued until at last he could bear the silence no longer. “Thou art an angel!” he exclaimed. “I know not what thou meanest. If I am thy houri, wilt thou follow me?” “I will.”