taught him his tricks, and I trust that _She_ will not bewitch him. Poor
Baboon! he must be wearied after that fight. I will go lest I should
awake him."

I waited till he had turned and was nearly through the entrance, walking
softly on tiptoe, and then I called after him.

"My father," I said, "is it thou?"

"Yes, my son, it is I; but let me not disturb thee. I did but come to
see how thou didst fare, and to tell thee that those who would have
slain thee, my Baboon, are by now far on their road to _She_. _She_ said
that ye also were to come at once, but I fear ye cannot yet."

"Nay," I said, "not till we have recovered a little; but have me borne
out into the daylight, I pray thee, my father. I love not this place."

"Ah, no," he answered, "it hath a sad air. I remember when I was a boy I
found the body of a fair woman lying where thou liest now, yes, on that
very bench. She was so beautiful that I was wont to creep in hither with
a lamp and gaze upon her. Had it not been for her cold hands, almost
could I think that she slept and would one day awake, so fair and
peaceful was she in her robes of white. White was she, too, and her
hair was yellow and lay down her almost to the feet. There are many such
still in the tombs at the place where _She_ is, for those who set them
there had a way I know naught of, whereby to keep their beloved out of
the crumbling hand of Decay, even when Death had slain them. Ay, day
by day I came hither, and gazed on her till at last--laugh not at me,
stranger, for I was but a silly lad--I learned to love that dead form,
that shell which once had held a life that no more is. I would creep