“Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always someone here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred last week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once the property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III, and my model was alone here for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I heard her cry out, and when I came to look for her she was crouching in a corner trembling. What do you suppose had frightened her?” “Give it up,” said Harman. “She swore that Nicris--for the statue is supposed to represent her--had moved!” “Imagination,” replied Coram, “but easily to be understood. I could believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.” “I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the tales that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a rather peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer by whom it had once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was unearthed at the same time containing an account of Nicris’s death under particularly horrible circumstances. Seton--you fellows know Seton--who was present at the opening of the sarcophagus, tells me that the Arabs, on catching sight of the girdle, all prostrated themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville Fennel’s agent sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived the idea of this statue.” “Luckily for you,” added Coram. “Quite so,” laughed the sculptor, and, carefully locking the studio door, he led the way up the short path to the house. We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having listened to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they neared the end of the street, we also prepared to take our leave. “Just come with me as far as the studio,” said Paxton, “and having seen that all’s well I’ll let you out by the garden door.” Accordingly, we donned our coats and hats, and followed our host to the end of the garden, where his studio was situated. The door unlocked, we all three stepped inside the place and gazed upon the figure of Nicris--the pallid face and arms seeming almost unearthly in the cold moonlight, wherein each jewel of the girdle and headdress glittered strangely. “Of course,” muttered Coram, “the thing’s altogether irregular--a fact which the critics will not fail to impress upon you; but it is unquestionably very fine, Paxton. How uncannily human it is! I don’t entirely envy you your bedchamber, old man!” “Oh, I sleep well enough,” laughed Paxton. “No luxury, though; just this corner curtained off and a camp bedstead.” “A truly Spartan couch!” I said. “Well, good-night, Paxton. We shall probably see you to-morrow--I mean later to-day!” With that we parted, leaving the sculptor to his lonely vigil at the shrine of Nicris, and as my rooms were no great distance away, some half-hour later I was in bed and asleep.