Behind it, straight from the lofty ceiling, fell
a veil of black velvet, embroidered with golden scarabaei, and fringed
with violet. The approach, a hundred paces or more, was guarded by
twoscore mummies in black cases, standing upright along the pillars.
"Watcher gawkin' at?" demanded the youth, grinning up at the staring
Simpkins. "Lose dat farmer-boy face or it's back to de ole homestead
for youse. Her royal nibs ain't lookin' for no good milker."
"Oh, I'm just rubbering to see where the goat's kept," the reporter
answered, trying to assume a properly metropolitan expression. "Suppose
I'll have to take the third degree before I can get out of here."
The youth started noiselessly across the floor, and Simpkins saw that
he wore sandals. His own heavy walking boots rang loudly on the flagged
floors and woke the echoes in the vaulted ceiling. He began to tread on
tiptoe, as one moves in a death-chamber.
And that was what this great room was: a charnel-house filled with
the spoil of tombs and temples. The dim light fluttered down from
quaint, triangular windows, set with a checker-work of brick-red and
saffron-colored panes about a central design, a scarlet heart upon a
white star, and within that a black scarabaeus. The white background of
the walls threw into relief the angular figures on the frieze, scenes
from old Egyptian life: games, marriages, feasts and battles, painted
in the crude colors of early art.
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