The southern side of the ascent was sheltered by an outstanding
buttress of rock.
He put the torch into Rachel's hand, and, taking up Deborah, climbed a
dozen steps to a dark opening half-closed by a fallen door. Pushing
the obstruction aside with his foot, he entered. When they were all
within he closed the entrance and unrolled the reeds.
There was a helter-skelter of mice past them and a rustle of retiring
insects. The torch blazed brightly and showed him a squat copper lamp
on the floor of the outer chamber. The vessel contained sandy dregs of
oil and a dirty floss of cotton. With an exclamation of surprise
Kenkenes lighted the wick, and after a little sputtering, it burned
smokily.
"Nay, now, how came a lamp in this tomb?" he asked without expecting an
answer.
The chamber was low-roofed and small--the whole interior rough with
chisel-marks. To the eyes of the sculptor, accustomed to the gorgeous
frescoes in the tombs of the Memphian necropolis, the walls looked bare
and pitiful. There were several prayers in the ancient hieroglyphics,
but no ancestral records or biographical paintings. Several strips of
linen were scattered over the floor, with the customary litter of dried
leaves, dust, refuse brought by rodents, cobwebs and the cast-off
chrysalides of insects.
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