The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные полные книги .TXT) 📗

Schiller in a voice that was gusty and faint with emotion as he lifted

them out of the cedarwood chest.

"And this is his false beard and his ceremonial pectoral  Wo, emblem."

Nahoot knelt beside him on the floor of the tomb under the great statue

of Osiris. All the ill feelings between them were forgotten in the

wonder of the moment as they examined the fabulous treasures of Egypt.

"This is the greatest archaeological discovery of all time," von

Schiller whispered, his voice tremulous. He pulled his handkerchief from

his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration of excitement that trickled

down his cheeks.

"There is years of work here," Nahoot told him seriously. "This

incredible collection will have to be catalogued and evaluated. It will

be known for ever as the von Schiller hoard. Your name will be

perpetuated for all time.

it is like the Egyptian dream of immortality. You will never be

forgotten. You will live for ever."

A rapturous expression crossed von Schiller's features.

He had not considered' that possibility. Up until this moment he had not

considered sharing this treasure with anybody, except in his particular

way with Utte Kemper, but Nahoot's words had awakened in him the old

impossible dream of eternity. Perhaps he might make arrangements for it

to be made accessible to the public - but only after his own death,

naturally.

Then he thrust the temptation aside. He would not debase this treasure

by making it available to the common rabble. It had been assembled for

the funeral of a pharaoh.

Von Schiller saw himself as the modern equivalent of a pharaoh.

"No!" he told Nahoot violently. "This is mine, all mine.

When I die it will go with me, all of it. I have made the arrangements

already, in my will. My sons know what to do. This will all be with me

in my own grave. My royal grave.

Nahoot stared at him aghast. He had not realized until that moment that

the old man was mad, that his obsessions had driven him over the edge of

sanity. But the Egyptian knew that there was no point in arguing with

him now later he would find a way to save this marvelous treasure from

the oblivion of another tomb. So he bowed his.head in mock acquiescence.

"You are right, Hell von Schiller. That is the only fitting manner to

dispose of it. You deserve that form of burial. However, our main

concern now must be to get all of it to safety. Helm has warned us about

the danger of the river, of the dam bursting. We must call him and Nogo.

Nogo's men must clear out the tomb. We can ferry the treasure in the

helicopter up to the Pegasus camp, where. I can pack it securely for the

journey to Germany."

"Yes. Yes." Von Schiller scrambled to his feet, suddenly terrified at

the prospect of being deprived of this wondrous hoard by the flooded

river. "Send the monk, what is his name, Hansith, send him to call Helm.

He must come at once."

Nahoot jumped up to his feet. "Hansith!" he shouted.

"Where are you?"

The monk had been waiting at the entrance to the burial chamber,

kneeling in prayer before the empty sarcophagus which had contained the

body of the saint. He was torn now between religious conviction and

greed.

When he heard his name called he genuflected deeply, and then rose and

hurried back to join von Schiller and Nahoot.

"You must go back to the Pool where we left the others-' Nahoot started

to relay the orders, but suddenly a strange, distracted expression

crossed Hansith's darkly handsome features and he held up his hand for

silence.

"What is it?" Nahoot demanded angrily. "What is it that you can hear?"

Hansith shook his head. "Be quiet! Listen! Can't you hear it?"

"There is nothing-' Nahoot began, but then broke off suddenly, and wild

terror filled his dark eyes.

There was the softest sound, gentle as the sigh of a summer zephyr,

lulling and low.

"What do you hear?" von Schiller demanded. His hearing had long ago

deteriorated, and the sound was far beyond the range of his old ears.

"Water!" whispered Nahoot."Running water!'

"The river!" shouted Hansith. "The tunnel is floodingr He whirled round

and went bounding down the funeral arcade with long, lithe strides.

"We will be trapped in here!" screamed Nahoot, and raced after him.

"Wait for me," von Schiller yelled, and tried to follow.

But he soon fell behind the two much younger men.

The monk, however, was far ahead of both of them as he took the flight

of stairs up from the gas trap two at a time.

"Hansith! Come back! I order you," Nahoot cried despairingly in his

wake, but he caught only a flash of the monk's white robe as he darted

into the first twist of the labyrinth.

"Guddabi, where are you?" von Schiller's voice quavered and echoed

through the stone corridors. But Nahoot did not reply as he ran on in

the direction which he thought the monk had taken, passing the first

turn in the maze without even glancing at the chalk marks on the wall.

He thought he heard Hansith's racing footsteps ahead of him, but by the

time he had turned the third corner he knew he was lost.

He stopped with his heart racing savagely and the bitter gall of terror

in the back of his throat.

"Hansith! Where are you?"he screamed wildly.

Von Schiller's voice came back to him, ringing weirdly down the

passageways, "Guddabi! Guddabi! Don't leave me here."

"Shut up!" he screamed. "Keep quiet, you old fool!'

Panting heavily, the blood pounding in his ears, he

111, Timor:

tried to listen for the sound of Hansith's feet. But he heard only the

sound of the river. The gentle susurration seemed to emanate from the

very walls around him.

"No! Don't leave me here," he screamed, and began to run without

direction, panic-stricken, through the maze.

/4' ansith took each twist and'turn unerringly, with the terror of

dreadful death driving his 7 feet. But at the head of the central

staircase his ankle twisted under him and he fell heavily. He tumbled

down the steeply inclined shaft, bumping and rolling the full length,

gathering speed as he went until he reached the bottom and lay sprawled

on the agate tiles of the long gallery.

He dragged himself to his feet, bruised and shaken by the fall, and

tried to run on. But his leg gave way under him again, and he fell in a

tangle. His ankle was badly sprained and would not carry his weight.

Nevertheless he dragged himself up a second time and hobbled down the

gallery, supporting himself with one hand on the shattered wall.

When he reached the doorway and crawled through it on to the landing

beside the generator the sound of the water came up the tunnel. It was

much louder now - a low, reverberating growl which almost blotted out

the soft, discreet hum of the generator.

"Sweet loving Christ and the Virgin, save me!" he pleaded as he

staggered and lurched down the tunnel, falling twice more before he

reached the lower level.

On his knees he peered ahead, and in the glare of the electric lights

strung along the roof of the tunnel he could make out the sink-hole

below him. He did not at first recognize it, for it had all changed. The

water level was no longer lower than the paved floor on which he