He stretched out his arms to clasp her, and lo! she was gone.
It was a very cold and a very stiff Smith who awoke on the following
morning, to find himself exactly where he had lain down--namely, on a
cement floor beneath the keel of a funeral boat in the central hall of
the Cairo Museum. He crept from his shelter shivering, and looked at
this hall, to find it quite as empty as it had been on the previous
evening. Not a sign or a token was there of Pharaoh Menes and all those
kings and queens of whom he had dreamed so vividly.
Reflecting on the strange phantasies that weariness and excited nerves
can summon to the mind in sleep, Smith made his way to the great doors
and waited in the shadow, praying earnestly that, although it was the
Mohammedan Sabbath, someone might visit the Museum to see that all was
well.
As a matter of fact, someone did, and before he had been there a
minute--a watchman going about his business. He unlocked the place
carelessly, looking over his shoulder at a kite fighting with two
nesting crows. In an instant Smith, who was not minded to stop and
answer questions, had slipped past him and was gliding down the portico,
from monument to monument, like a snake between boulders, still keeping
in the shadow as he headed for the gates.
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