“‘Great Pharaoh,’ cried the sculptor, ‘I was sent here to mock thy little greatness, not to build it.’ “The Pharaoh raised his finger— The spears struck home— And over the dying sculptor, the mocking Sphinx smiled still.” The glint as of a black pearl over the East told of the approach of day. The artist clutched the boy’s arm. “It speaks,” he said, in an awed whisper, “at last it speaks!” The dawn trembled closer, and, in the utter distance, a bird’s faint notes were heard. “You hear—” Not for the world would the boy have said that the sound the artist heard was but a bird singing to the morning. “I hear,” he answered. The sun thrust up a beam of welcome, and with the first long, level ray, the artist sprang to his feet. He snatched the canvas that for twenty years had never known a brush and feverishly, madly, began to paint. Color and line grew like a swifter life upon the canvas, strokes so rapid and so sure that the eye could scarcely follow them as they gave birth to form. The day was not yet an hour old when the artist laid down his palette. “It is done!” he said. “It was well to wait. There is the message of the Sphinx!” And, dropping his brushes on the boulder, the artist threw himself upon the ground, and, in a moment, was asleep. Cramped and stiff, Perry rose and stretched himself. The sun rose over the lebbek-trees, warm and comforting. Two tourists, early risers, coming from the hotel, strolled over to where the boy was standing. Seeing that they were about to speak, Perry held up his hand. “Please!” he said softly; “he’s asleep.” The first looked at the artist, recumbent on the sand. “Why, it’s Mad Quinward!” he exclaimed. The second looked at the picture. He removed his helmet, as though entering a shrine. “That will be deemed one of the world’s great masterpieces,” he said reverently. “You saw him paint it?” Simply, the lad replied: “I have been here all night.” CHAPTER VI ACROSS THE DESERT ON CAMEL-BACK The sun was high before Mad Quinward awoke, Perry staying beside him faithfully. The news of the great picture had spread, and when the artist roused himself, he found himself the center of a crowd. Many people pressed forward with congratulations, but the painter seemed dazed and silent. The boy urged him to come to the hotel for breakfast, an invitation warmly seconded by Dr. Hunt, for the professor, as fully as any one, had realized the wonder of that canvas, painted in an ecstasy during the first flush of an Egyptian sunrise. But Quinward, never again to be called “Mad” Quinward, strapped up his little easel, took the canvas—which had been blank for twenty years, and now had blossomed into so marvelous a work, and with a word here and there, turned to the lebbek-bordered road and trudged back to Cairo. Though less than a day had elapsed since Perry first met him, the boy had a pang of loneliness when he saw the artist go.