"They shall start at once, and I shall go with them; I am as strong as six," I replied. Then I shouted some orders to Migdal Abu. When I turned it was to gasp. A woman had materialised from the sunbeams. I had completely forgotten that Sir Robert had a female companion. All my eyes had been for him. I swung off my hat and stammered some tardy words of welcome and invitation. Sir Robert interrupted me. "My daughter--Dr. Pinsent," he drawled in slow, passionless tones. "My daughter does not require any refreshment, thank you, Doctor." "I am too excited," said a singularly sweet voice. "Father's discovery has put me into a fever. I really could not eat, and coffee would choke me. But if you could give me a little water." I rushed into my tent and returned with a brimming metal cup. "The Arabs have broken all my glass ware," I said apologetically. She lifted her veil and our eyes met. She was lovely. She smiled and showed a set of dazzling teeth. The incisors were inlaid with gold. I remarked the fact in a sort of self-defensive panic, for the truth is I am a shy idiot with pretty women. Thank goodness she was thirsty and did not notice my confusion. Two minutes afterwards I was mounted on my donkey, and we were off on the long tramp to the Hill of Rakh, the Arabs trailing behind us in a thin ill-humoured line. We maintained the silence of bad temper and excessive heat until the sun sank into the sand. Then, however, we wiped our foreheads, said a cheerful good-bye to the flies that had been tormenting us, and woke up. "I am immensely obliged to you, Dr. Pinsent," said Sir Robert. "So am I," said Miss Ottley. "The boot is on the other foot," I replied. "It's kind of you to permit me to be present at your triumph. Is it a king?" "No," said Miss Ottley, "a priest of Amen of the eighteenth dynasty." "Oh, a priest." Miss Ottley bridled at my tone. "No king was ever half as interesting as _our_ priest," she declared. "He was a wonderful man in every way, a prophet, a magician, and enormously powerful. Besides, he is believed to have committed suicide for the sake of principle, and he predicted his own resurrection after a sleep of two thousand years." "He has been dead 3285 years," sighed Sir Robert. "Is that his fault?" cried the girl. "It falsifies his prophecy." She shrugged her shoulders. "Ptahmes was his name," said Sir Robert, turning to me. "He was the right-hand man of Amen-hotep IV; but when that king changed his religion and his name and became Akhenaten and a devotee of the old worship of Heliopolis, Ptahmes apparently killed himself as a protest against the deposition of Amen, his particular divinity." "Read that," said Miss Ottley. She handed me a page of type-written manuscript. It ran as follows: "Hearken to the orders which are put upon you by Ptahmes, named Tahutimes, son of Mery, son of Hap.