He would very soon revenge himself upon me, and destroy me in the same diabolically ingenious fashion, perhaps, in which he had killed poor Weldon. And Miss Ottley would then be at his mercy, with no man living to defend her. She might continue to resist him for a time, but in the end a man so unscrupulous and implacably determined would be sure to have his way. Able to make himself invisible--as I believed he could--he might as a last resort rob her of her honour and so bend her proud spirit to his wish. It was this thought that finally determined me. I looked up and said quietly to the patient, waiting Arab: "Ptahmes, son of Mery, son of Hap, once High Priest of Amen-Ra, but now I know not what--I swear by the King of Earth and Heaven to destroy the stele and papyri unread if I shall find them, to burn your body and scatter the ashes, and to kill your enemy and mine." The dark, fixed, corpse-like face of the Arab turned forthwith from me. He pressed the slate to his bosom with the stump of his left wrist and with the right hand rubbed out the hieroglyphic writing. He then glided over to the table and replaced the slate. I followed his movements with the most passionate attention, expecting him to return and immediately release me from my bonds. But he did no such thing. In the contrary, he moved slowly forward to the great sarcophagus and to my great astonishment I saw him climb over the edge and repose himself within the tomb. Presently he had entirely vanished from my sight. I could hardly credit my eyes. What was the meaning of his strange act? I waited for a few minutes, but he did not reappear. Then I called out his name aloud: "Ptahmes! Ptahmes!" Nothing answered me. I racked my brains to string together an imploring sentence in the ancient tongue of Egypt, and having fashioned one, I cried it forth in tones of passionate entreaty, by turns commanding and beseeching him to keep his pledge. And not once or twice, but a hundred times, did I address him in these ways. But I might as well have cried out to the stars. My efforts were all unavailing, and at length, wearied out with them, I desisted and abandoned my remaining energy to the bitter task of reactionary self-reviling. I caustically informed myself that my brain had gone wandering. Thus until I was hot all over with shame. Then in a more kindly spirit I cast about for excuses to salve my intellectual vanity. I ascribed the whole wild dream that I had dreamed to the blow my poor head had received last night. But all the while, deep at heart, I did not believe I had dreamed. I pretended to, in order to make sure that I still possessed a critical, scientific faculty. But I did not believe it really. I could not. And this fact is one more proof to me that faith in all its forms depends more upon feeling than intellectual conviction. Chapter XXVI A Pleasant Chat With a Murderer