Desmond examined it curiously. “Why it’s a papyrus,” he exclaimed. “Yes! and written by Korah himself, and placed there just before he died.” “Have you read it?” “Yes, it’s quite easy in parts. Listen,” and Alan translated from the old and faded Hebraic characters the following, “WRITING by KORAH, known henceforth to all generations as KORAH THE ACCURSED Know, then, these four months, as far as it is possible to judge time in this accursed spot, I and all my belongings have remained in this cavern. Abiram and Dathan have sealed the doors of stone against us. Escape is impossible. There is naught for us to do but die. Be it known—I—Korah the Accursed—am sore at heart for my sins of rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Jehovah has inflicted upon us all a grievous punishment. His name be praised. Food there is none except that which came down with us into this pit of terror. Lord of Hosts, I tremble at what I see. Mothers tearing their little ones, women in childbirth crying to the God in Heaven that they may die before they are delivered. I—Korah—alone have remained fasting. It is the only reparation I can make for my sins, and for the unworthiness I have shown as one of Jehovah’s chosen ones. I Korah—” Then came a space that was unintelligible. Time had worked its will and the writing was indistinct, and in parts entirely erased. “How awful,” said Desmond, shuddering. “Think—half these skeletons here were perhaps murdered by their brothers for food. What agonies, what pangs they must have suffered!” “Wait—there is more,” said Alan, and he went on translating, “Forty days and forty nights fasting is as nothing to the fasting here. It seems forty times forty since food passed my parched and cracked lips. My people turn not upon me and slay me. Oh that they would! Dead flesh is rotting all around me—the air is heavy with the stench. There are none now left alive but myself. I will fasten this to the wall of the inner cave, and then lay me down to die. Of what use are gold and riches to us here? Poorer am I than the most disease-laden beggar of the world above. O God of Hosts forgive Korah, the son of Izhar, the son of Kohath, the son of Levi.” For some time after Alan had finished reading the boys remained in silence. The whole scene rose up in their minds like a picture, and the horror of it nauseated them. The terrible hunger and thirst of the captives-the scenes of cannibalism afterwards—the child murder—it was revolting. “Now,” said Alan. “Come to the real tomb of Korah. This is the tomb of his people—but he lies yonder.” So the three of them mounted the rough steps in the rock, and ten feet above their heads was the little opening. Just a little cleft through which they passed, and down a short but steep path into the cave below.