The Curse of the Pharaohs by Elizabeth Peters Page B

had been no conflict. Ramses was safe and happy; Emerson was in deadly danger, and my place was at his side, guarding him from peril.
    As I mused I saw Emerson reappear from behind a heap of boulders some distance from the path. His face was smeared with blood, and his eyes bulged with rage, so that he presented quite a formidable sight.
    "He got away, did he?" I said.
    "Not a trace. I would not have left you," he added apologetically, "but that I felt sure the rascal had taken to his heels the moment the rock fell."
    "Nonsense. The attempt was aimed at you, not at me— although the perpetrator does not seem to care whom he endangers. The knife—"
    "I don't believe the two incidents can be related, Amelia. The hands that pushed this rock were surely the filthy hands of Habib."
    This suggestion made a certain amount of sense. "But why does he hate you so much?" I asked. "I could see you were on bad terms, but attempted murder...."
    "I was responsible for his being apprehended on the criminal charge I spoke of." Emerson accepted the handkerchief I gave him and attempted to clean his face while we walked on.
    "What was his crime? Stealing antiquities?"
    "That, of course. Most of the Gurneh men are involved in the antiquities game. But the case that brought him to justice, through me, was of a different and very distressing nature. Habib once had a daughter. Her name was Aziza. When she was a small child she worked for me as a basket girl. As she matured she turned into an unusually pretty young woman, slight and graceful as a gazelle, with big dark eyes mat would melt any man's heart."
    The tale Emerson proceeded to unfold would indeed have melted the hardest heart—even that of a man. The girl's beauty made her a valuable property, and her father hoped to sell her to a wealthy landowner. Alas, her beauty attracted other admirers, and her innocence rendered her vulnerable to their wiles. When her shame became known the rich and repulsive buyer rejected her, and her father, enraged at losing his money, determined to destroy a now-valueless object. Such things are done more often than the British authorities like to admit; in the name of "family honor" many a poor woman has met a ghastly fate at the hands of those who should have been her protectors. But in this case the girl managed to escape before the murderer had completed his vile act. Beaten and bleeding, she staggered to the tent of Emerson, who had been kind to her.
    "Both her arms were broken," said Emerson, in a soft, cold voice quite unlike his usual tones. "She had tried to shield her head from the blows of her father's club. How she eluded him, or walked so far in her condition, I cannot imagine. She collapsed at my feet. I made her as comfortable as I could and ran to get help. In the few moments I was gone, Habib, who must have been close behind her, entered my tent and crushed her skull with a single blow.
    "I returned in time to see him running away. One glance told me I could do no more for poor Aziza, so I went in pursuit. I gave him a good beating before I turned him over to the police. He got off much more lightly than he deserved, for of course the native courts found his motive entirely reasonable. If I had not threatened the sheikh with various unpleasant things he would probably have set Habib free."
    I pressed his arm sympathetically. I understood why he had not mentioned the story; even now the memory affected him deeply. The softer side of Emerson's character is not known to many people, but those who are in trouble instinctively sense his real nature and seek him out, as the unhappy girl had done.
    After a moment of thoughtful silence he shook himself and said, in his usual careless tone, "So take care with Mr. Vandergelt, Amelia. He was not exaggerating when he called himself an admirer of the fair sex, and if I learn that you have yielded to his advances I will beat you."
    "I will take care that you don't catch me, never fear. But, Emerson, we are