Marching Sands
There was something eager and threatening in the face of the tall Englishman that choked off Muhammed Bai's denial.
"It is as I said, Excellency. The writings were found in the desert."
"Where?"
"A week's ride from here, to the west."
"Near Sungan—eh? How did you find them?"
The Turkoman was sullenly silent. Sir Lionel dropped a coin on the rug. It was gold.
"Ah, the Excellency is generous as a prince of the royal household!" cried Muhammed Bai. "It was on a stone—a boundary stone at the place I said—that I found the writings. See, here is the stone."
He scrambled to his feet, bowing, and hastened to the rear of the stall. He cast off some rugs from the top of a pile, disclosing a piece of brown sandstone some three feet high and a foot in thickness. On the surface of the stone Gray saw characters engraved, characters that were strange to him.
But not to Sir Lionel. The Englishman dropped to his knees with an exclamation, whipping out his eyeglasses. He ran his finger over the writing on the sandstone.
"A form of Sanscrit!" he cried. "By Jove—three centuries old, at least. Four, I should judge. And here is the character corresponding to the Chinese word Wusun, the 'Tall Ones.' Remark-
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