success of the experiment to unswathe her.  I think that under any circumstances it would be necessary to remove the wrappings before she became again a live human being instead of a spiritualised corpse with an astral body.  Were her original intention carried out, and did she come to new life within her mummy wrappings, it might be to exchange a coffin for a grave!  She would die the death of the buried alive!  But now, when she has voluntarily abandoned for the time her astral power, there can be no doubt on the subject.”

Margaret’s face cleared.  “All right, Father!” she said as she kissed him.  “But oh! it seems a horrible indignity to a Queen, and a woman.”

I was moving away to the staircase when she called me: 

“Where are you going?” I came back and took her hand and stroked it as I answered: 

“I shall come back when the unrolling is over!” She looked at me long, and a faint suggestion of a smile came over her face as she said: 

“Perhaps you had better stay, too!  It may be useful to you in your work as a barrister!” She smiled out as she met my eyes:  but in an instant she changed.  Her face grew grave, and deadly white.  In a far away voice she said: 

“Father is right!  It is a terrible occasion; we need all to be serious over it.  But all the same—­nay, for that very reason you had better stay, Malcolm!  You may be glad, later on, that you were present tonight!”

My heart sank down, down, at her words; but I thought it better to say nothing.  Fear was stalking openly enough amongst us already!

By this time Mr. Trelawny, assisted by Mr. Corbeck and Doctor Winchester, had raised the lid of the ironstone sarcophagus which contained the mummy of the Queen.  It was a large one; but it was none too big.  The mummy was both long and broad and high; and was of such weight that it was no easy task, even for the four of us, to lift it out.  Under Mr. Trelawny’s direction we laid it out on the table prepared for it.

Then, and then only, did the full horror of the whole thing burst upon me!  There, in the full glare of the light, the whole material and sordid side of death seemed staringly real.  The outer wrappings, torn and loosened by rude touch, and with the colour either darkened by dust or worn light by friction, seemed creased as by rough treatment; the jagged edges of the wrapping-cloths looked fringed; the painting was patchy, and the varnish chipped.  The coverings were evidently many, for the bulk was great.  But through all, showed that unhidable human figure, which seems to look more horrible when partially concealed than at any other time.  What was before us was Death, and nothing else.  All the romance and sentiment of fancy had disappeared.  The two elder men, enthusiasts who had often done such work, were not disconcerted; and Doctor Winchester seemed to hold himself in a business-like attitude, as if before the operating-table.  But I felt low-spirited, and miserable, and ashamed; and besides I was pained and alarmed by Margaret’s ghastly pallor.