Hassan es-Sugra walked through the mysterious darkness as confidently as Barry would have walked along Fifth Avenue, until they came to the Great Hall, most awe-inspiring of all the Egyptian monuments. He seemed to know every inch of the place. The hieroglyphics held no mystery for him. Raising his stick he pointed to an inscription, translating slowly: “I did the best I could for the Temple of Amen, as architect of my Lord. I placed obelisks, their height reached to the world of heaven. A propylon is before the same in sight of the city of Thebes; and ponds and gardens of flourishing trees.…” “Who made this inscription, Hassan?” Barry asked. “He was the First Prophet of Amen,” was the reply, “in the reign of Rameses the Second, who was the son of Seti the First.” Barry did not reply. A new idea had possessed him; a new magic had invested the building. Here, in this vast, wonderful temple-place, she must have walked--the Princess Zalithea!--the beautiful, mysterious girl of the past who was so like that other, who lived, who surely lived, in the present! His blood tingled, impatience claimed him, and, suddenly turning to Hassan: “When do we begin to excavate?” he asked abruptly. “I hope, sir, the day after to-morrow.” “Good!” said Barry. The magic of Egypt had got into his veins. He knew that whatever else life might hold for him, wherever Fate should guide his steps, always until the end he would hear it calling him--calling him back to the Nile. Later that night in the almost deserted lounge of the hotel he got into conversation with a very bored young man whose job was connected with the Irrigation Department. In a less virulent case this young man could not have failed to prove a perfect antidote. “Dead-alive hole, this,” he declared, “out of the season. Did you stay long in London?” “A week,” Barry replied. “Lucky man!” sighed the other. “I would cheerfully sell all Egypt, if it belonged to me, for a week in London. See any new shows?” “One or two.” “Gad! I’d see one every evenin’! And after the show I’d go on to the Kit Cat, first night; the Embassy, next night; Ciro’s, third night. And so forth.” “Really?” said Barry. “That’s odd! The life in London or New York or Paris seems to be much the same. I’ve been fed up with the usual round for years!” “I’ve never had a chance to get fed up,” the other declared plaintively. “I went straight from Oxford to the war, straight from the war to hospital, and straight from hospital to this blasted hole.” “Don’t you get a vacation sometimes?” “_Sometimes_ is right,” said the other. Barry laughed at his acquaintance’s pessimism and ordered another drink. As the waiter brought it: “You are not here for fun, are you?” the irrigation man inquired wearily; “because there’s nothing funny about Luxor.” “No,” said Barry guardedly. “My father and I are here on a job of work.” “You are not goin’ to try to Americanize Egypt, are you?” the other suggested.