On a table in the middle of one of these rooms a thing to make you
shudder gleams in a glass box, a fragile thing that failed of life some
two thousand years ago. It is the mummy of a human embryo, and someone,
to appease the malice of this born-dead thing, had covered its face with
a coating of gold--for, according to the belief of the Egyptians, these
little abortions became the evil genii of their families if proper
honour was not paid to them. At the end of its negligible body, the
gilded head, with its great foetus eyes, is unforgettable for its
suffering ugliness, for its frustrated and ferocious expression.

In the halls into which we next penetrate there are veritable dead
bodies ranged on either side of us as we pass; their coffins are
displayed in tiers one above the other; the air is heavy with the
sickly odour of mummies; and on the ground, curled always like some
huge serpent, the leather hoses are in readiness, for here indeed is the
danger spot for fire.

And the master of this strange house whispers to me: "This is the place.
Look! There they are."

In truth I recognise the place, having often come here in the daytime,
like other people. In spite of the darkness, which commences at some ten
paces from us--so small is the circle of light cast by our lantern--I
can distinguish the double row of the great royal coffins, open without
shame in their glass cases. And standing against the walls, upright,
like so many sentinels, are the coffin lids, fashioned in the shape of
the human figure.

We are there at last, admitted at this unseasonable hour into the