Page:Weird Tales Volume 30 Number 02 (1937-08).djvu/76

of the bodiless monarchs; of the great secret that is theirs—a knowledge that permits them to unite a head to a freshly decapitated body, and render it immune to time. Karamour tells that he and the Princess would again become whole, but must have bodies in whose veins flows the royal blood of Egypt—forms appropriate to their station.

Bryant is led to the dungeons, to be transferred later to a luxurious room in the castle. Here he is visited by the wondrous Atma, whose beauty is equaled only by her sensuousness. Bryant becomes enamored of the Egyptian, and together they plan flight.

Atma tells of the great treasure that is theirs for the taking, and the following night, accompanied by three black slaves, they ride far into the desert, where, in the dreary corridors that lie below a forgotten valley, Bryant beholds the riches and sleeping body of Balkis, Queen of Sheba. Later, the cruelty of Atma is shown as she shoots the slaves, calmly saying: "It was the only way to keep the hidden treasure of Sheba a secret for ever."

The story continues:

The little summer house at the far end of Prince Karamour's tropical garden gives a splendid view of the rolling Atlantic below. Here I had come in the early hour of the African morning that precedes the quick rising of the sun in the east.

What romantic ships of history must have sailed past that little land-locked harbor! In the dawn of time, perhaps, hollowed logs of the hairy men or the tiny craft of the Hawk kings had entered. Later, and more surely, would have been the two-sailed ships of Crete. Ages passed. Now came the Phenician traders, cursing sea-robbers of Crœsus and the great war galleys of the Cæsars rowed by naked slaves; to be followed a thousand years later by the tall, fair-haired barbarians in horned helmets, who shouted defiant war cries and drank great flagons of mead; then vessels whose sailors spoke of Elizabeth, and soldiers whose swords were drawn for Isabella. And far out over the tossing blue, but a brief century ago, the Northumberland had carried a short stout man, whose little cocked hat and loose gray coat with the silver star were well known throughout Europe, to a mountainous island in the south.

My reveries were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Doctor Zola, whose brisk approach on the grassy terrace had been quite noiseless. With his accustomed cheerful greeting, the immaculate Frenchman invaded my quiet retreat and seated himself on the near-by bench, looking out at the tumbling waters while he puffed his cigarette with apparent enjoyment.

I was not deceived by this show of indifference. Too well I knew the perfidious fiend not to realize that his cunning brain would always harbor treachery and deceit, that naught but trickery could be expected from him whose glib tongue had caused the capture of the unhappy Carol Terry.

"Monsieur Bryant looks tired." The dark face had suddenly turned as his eyes looked searchingly into mine.

"Tired?" I feigned a quick surprize. "Why, no, I slept rather well."

The physician gave a nasty laugh.

"Well, perhaps, but hardly long enough. As your doctor, I would prescribe regular hours, and less strenuous—shall we say?—desert travel."

I spat out an oath.

"Oh, come now, Monsieur, you must not growl at my advice! Surely you will