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"Here, wait, I have the medicine," he whispered. He eased himself down slowly on the side of the bed. He drew the vial out of his coat. A half inch of fluid remained in it, sparkling unnaturally in the sun.

She studied the vial suspiciously. She watched him open it. He raised it, gently touching her hair with his left hand; but she stopped him. She pointed to her eyelids and he saw that there were still small places there where the skin appeared eaten away. She took the vial from him, poured a drop or two onto her fingers and smoothed this on her lids.

Elliott narrowed his eyes as he watched the action of the chemical. He could almost hear it, a faint rustling, crackling sound.

Now, desperately, she took the whole vial and poured the fluid over the gaping hole in her chest. She smeared it with her left fingers, whimpering softly, and then lay back, gasping faintly, head tossing on the pillows, then still.

Several minutes passed. He was fascinated by what he saw. But the healing went only so far, then stopped. Her lids, they were now entirely normal, and indeed her lashes were a dark unbroken fringe. But the wound in her side was as evil as ever.

It was only just penetrating to him that she was Cleopatra, that Ramses had stumbled upon the body of his lost love. It was only just coming clear to him why Ramses had done what he had done. Dully he wondered what it meant to have such power. He had dreamed of immortality, but not the power to convey it. And this was the power not only to grant immortality, but to triumph over death.

But the implications ... they staggered him. This creature, what was going on in her mind? Indeed, where had her mind as such come from? God, he had to reach Ramsey!

"I'll get more of the medicine," he said in English, translating it immediately into Latin. "I'll bring it here to you, but you must rest now. You must lie here in the sun." He pointed to the window. Using both languages, he explained that the sun was making the medicine work.

Drowsily she looked at him. She repeated his English phrases, mimicking his accent perfectly. But her eyes had a glazed and utterly mad look now. She murmured something in Latin about not being able to remember and then she began to weep again.

He could not bear the sight of it. But what more could he do? As quickly as he could, he went into the other room and brought back a bottle of liqueur for her, a thick spicy brandy, and at once she took it from him and drank it down.

Her eyes went dim for a moment. And then she moaned aloud in pure distress again.

The gramophone. Ramsey loved music. Ramsey was spellbound by it. Elliott went to the little machine, and examined the few records beside it in a pile. Lots of the English-language foolishness. Ah, here was what he wanted: Aida. Caruso singing Radames.

He wound the box, and set the needle on the record. At the first thin sound of the orchestra, she sat up in the bed; she stared in horror. But he went to her and touched her shoulder gently.

"Opera, Aida," he said. He groped for words in Latin to explain it was a music box; it worked by parts fitted together. "The song was from a man to his Egyptian love."

She climbed out of the bed and stumbled past him. She was now almost entirely naked, and her form was quite beautiful, her hips narrow and her legs beautifully proportioned. He tried not to stare at her; not to stare at her breasts. Approaching slowly, he lifted the gramophone needle. She screamed at him. A volley of curses broke from her in Latin. "Make the music go on."

"Yes, but I want to show you how," he told her. He cranked the handle of the machine again. He set the needle on the record again. Only then did the utter savagery go out of her

expression. She began to moan in time with the music, and then she put her hands on her head, and shut her eyes very tight.

She began to dance, rocking frantically from side to side. It terrified him to watch her, but he knew he'd seen this very kind of dancing before. He had seen it among severely damaged children--an atavistic response to the rhythm and sound.

She didn't notice as he slipped away to bring her food.

Ramses bought the newspaper from the British newsstand and walked on, slowly, through the crowded bazaar.

MURDER IN THE MUSEUM

MUMMY STOLEN; MAID KILLED

Beneath the headline was the column heading:

MYSTERIOUS EGYPTIAN

SOUGHT IN GRISLY DEATH

He scanned the details, then crumpled up the newspaper and threw it away. He walked on with his head bowed, arms folded under the Arab robe. Had she slain this serving woman? And why had she done it? And how had she managed to escape?

Of course the officials might be lying, but that seemed unlikely. Not enough time had elapsed for such cleverness. And she had had the opportunity, for the guards had been busy taking him away.

He tried to see again what he had seen in that shadowy hallway--the horrid monstrosity which he had resurrected from the case. He saw the thing trudging towards him: he heard the hoarse, almost gurgling voice. He saw the attitude of suffering stamped on the half-eaten-away face!

What was he to do? This morning for the first time since he had been a mortal man, he had thought of his gods. In the museum as he had stood over her remains, ancient chants had come back to him; ancient words he'd spoken before the populace and in the darkened temple surrounded by priests.

And now in the hot teeming street, he found himself whispering under his breath old prayers again.