"Damned if it is! That is all right to the point, and you know it."
"Desist!" commanded the dark head sternly. "Such conduct is both useless and improper before the last of the Oekheperkere."
His eyes flashed toward the defiant Terry. "You are wrong, young stranger, in thinking that ancestry cannot be traced to such a distant past. I have followed yours most carefully. Ah, how well was I informed through the centuries—my secret spies ever watching your forefathers as I labored and hoped for the great day when I might have need for them! And you think I do not know your departed? Listen:
"The second son of Hatshepsut's child Norfruse, a rash, impetuous youth, fled from the great palace with a dark-eyed concubine of Crete, the favorite of his father, the Pharaoh. Making their way to distant Jerusalem, his descendants remained in that ancient city till its destruction by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar, some nine hundred years later. From Babylon to Damascus, from the great walls of Troy to distant Nineveh, the children of the mother Queen wandered, to return to their homeland in the reign of the Ptolemies.
"Not always was the blood of the Oekheperkere in luxury and comfort. The river of time brought many changes of position and station; jewels and silks for some generations, poverty and hunger for the others—ever swaying from the highest to the worst, with only their courage and lineage eternal.
"Often your forefathers fought as common foot-soldiers in the armies of Persia and Carthage—archers for Hannibal, warriors for Xerxes, slingers who perished on Marathon's plain."
For a moment he paused to flash his age-old eyes upon us. Then:
"Yes, bold youth, I know well your blood. I have too long watched to err at this supreme moment. Undoubtedly, you are the descendant of the great Hatshepsut."
Bob Terry gave a gesture of impatience,
"And supposing that I am—it could mean nothing to you. Egypt's glory has gone. We now live in a different age, a new environment. Must one be dragged from his home like a common felon, simply because his ancestors may have been savage rulers thousands of years ago?"
"It could mean nothing to me?" cried the dark head in surprize. "You say that it could mean nothing to me! Then, why would you suppose I have had your blood traced through the ages? Why should I secure the services of Doctor Zola, the greatest surgeon of the day, to assist me in this great venture? Why did I build this fortress over thirty-four centuries ago?"
Carol Terry staggered to her feet.
"We do not know! We do not know!" she wailed. "Words, words—always words and yet no meaning. Ten days of mental hell have passed, but still we do not know your purpose. Torture—kill if you must—but for God's sake, tell us why?"
And before I could spring forward to catch her, Carol Terry had slipped to the floor in a swoon.
I had lifted her to the chair, when the voice of the Pharaoh spoke again.
"It is just as well. What is to be said will no doubt fall hard on the tender ears of the golden one. Give her your attention, Doctor, while I speak to the sullen males."
"To the tower of surgery?" asked Zola, as he held the girl's limp body in his arms.
The dark head nodded, and when the Frenchman disappeared with his burden, turned his dark eyes once more upon us.
