at the water’s edge.  In a moment more it was afloat and they were at the oars.  The moon emerged and at the same instant an outcry came from above.  The musket of the man in the lower sentry-box barked with a blatant reverberation.  One of the figures in the boat drooped forward and sagged limply over his oars.  The other only redoubled his efforts.  And then again, like the curtain of a theater, a cloud dropped downward and quenched the moon and the sea and the rock in impartial obscurity.

CHAPTER XXIII

“SCARABS OF A DEAD DYNASTY”

Since the anchor had been weighed at Naples, the days had passed uneventfully for the indolently cruising Isis with no word from Galavia.  But at last the operator caught his call and made ready to receive.  The message consisted of one word, and the word was “Cairo.”

Cara, with no suspicion of what was transpiring in Puntal, beguiled by the spell of smooth seas and dolce-far-niente softness of sky, was once more the frank and charming companion of the American days.

The single word of the Marconigram had left the American in perplexity.  Evidently either Karyl or Von Ritz was to meet them at Cairo.  Probably Cairo instead of Alexandria had been designated because the King had taken into consideration the possible danger from the plague at the seaport.  He told Cara only that Karyl would join the vacation party there and kept to himself the reservation that his coming probably meant disaster.  Yet when they reached Cairo there was no news awaiting them.

It was the night of a confetti fete at Shephard’s Hotel.  Among the trees of the gardens were ropes of lights and the soft color-spots of Chinese lanterns.  Branches glittered with incandescent fruit of brilliant colors.  Flags hung between the fronds of the palms and the plumes of the acacias, and among the pleasure-seekers from East and West of Suez fell pelting showers of confetti.

After dinner Cara and the ladies of her party had withdrawn to their rooms to prepare for the gay warfare of the gardens.  Benton, awaiting them in the rotunda, lounged on one of the low divans which circle the walls of the octagonal chamber, beneath carved lattices and Moorish panels; a cigarette between his fingers and a small cup of black coffee on the low tabouret at his elbow.

The place invited lazy ease, and Benton was as indolent among his cushions as the spirit of brooding Egypt, but his eyes, watching the stairs down which she would come, remained alert.

Hearing his name called in a voice which rang familiarly, he glanced up to recognize the smiling face of young Harcourt, his chance acquaintance of Capri.  He set down the small Turkish cup and rose.

“Come back to the bar and fortify yourself against the thin red line of British soldiery out there in the gardens.  You can get a ripping highball for eight piastres,” laughed the newcomer.  But Benton declined.