"I should doubt that. History is what man makes it; and the character of man in the early days of civilization was, I think, more forceful, more earnest, more strong of purpose, more bent on great achievements."
"The principal achievement and glory being to kill as many of one's fellow-creatures as possible!" laughed Gervase--"Like the famous warrior, Araxes, of whom the Princess has just been telling me!"
"Araxes was great, but now Araxes is a forgotten hero," said the Princess slowly, each accent of her dulcet voice chiming on the ear like the stroke of a small silver bell. "None of the modern discoverers know anything about him yet. They have not even found his tomb; but he was buried in the Pyramids with all the honors of a king. No doubt your clever men will excavate him some day."
"I think the Pyramids have been very thoroughly explored," said Dr. Dean. "Nothing of any importance remains in them now."
The Princess arched her lovely eyebrows.
"No? Ah! I daresay you know them better than I do!" and she laughed, a laugh which was not mirthful so much as scornful.
"I am very much interested in Araxes," said Gervase then, "partly, I suppose, because he is as yet in the happy condition of being an interred mummy. Nobody has dug him up, unwound his cerements, or photographed him, and his ornaments have not been stolen. And in the second place I am interested in him because it appears he was in love with the famous dancer of his day whom the Princess represents to-night,--Charmazel. I wish I had heard the story before I came to Cairo; I would have got myself up as Araxes in person to-night."
"In order to play the lover of Charmazel?" queried the Doctor.
"Exactly!" replied Gervase with flashing eyes; "I daresay I could have acted the part."
"I should imagine you could act any part," replied the Doctor, blandly. "The role of love-making comes easily to most men."
The Princess looked at him as he spoke and smiled. The jewelled scarab, set as a brooch on her bosom, flashed luridly in the moon, and in her black eyes there was a similar lurid gleam.
"Come and talk to me," she said, laying her hand on his arm; "I am tired, and the conversation of one's ball-room partners is very banal. Monsieur Gervase would like me to dance all night, I imagine; but I am too lazy. I leave such energy to Lady Fulkeward and to all the English misses and madams. I love indolence."