Lion in the Valley by Elizabeth Peters

blood vessels, but it was still oozing the roseate ichor of life, so I bound it
up as best I could. My patient lay quiet, his eyes closed, but I suspected he
had regained consciousness, and this suspicion was confirmed when, upon my
again attempting to remove his turban, my hand was pushed away.
    I
repeated my reassurance, adding, "I must see your head, friend, to
determine whether you suffer from... Curse it," I added in English,
"what is the Arabic for concussion?"
    "If
such a word exists, I am not acquainted with it," said Ramses, squatting
beside me with the same boneless ease Egyptians demonstrate in assuming that
awkward position. "But you need not tax your knowledge of Arabic, Mama.
The gentleman is English."
    "Courtesy
is a quality I always commend, Ramses," I said. "But the word
'gentleman,' when applied to this no doubt honest but somewhat disreputable ...
What did you say? English?"
    "Unquestionably,"
said Ramses. "I thought as much yesterday, when I saw him juggling the
oranges the fruit vendor had let fall. There are certain idiosyncratic
structures of face and body found only in the members of the Celtic subrace, and
the stubble of beard on his face, though darkened by prolonged abstinence from
the means of ablution, had a reddish tinge. Should there be any doubt in your
mind, Mama, as to the extent of my anatomic expertise or the accuracy of my
observations, let me add that I distinctly heard issue from his lips, when one
of his assailants attacked, the word 'Damn.' "
    The
word was repeated, just as distinctly, by the same lips.
The closed eyes snapped open. The irises were a bright, fiery blue—not the deep
sapphire of Emerson's eyes, but the identical shade of the turquoise used so
often in ancient Egyptian jewelry.
    I
sat back on my heels. "Nonsense," I said. "You will find high
cheekbones and blue eyes among the Berber tribesmen to the north. A splendid
race of men, true sons of the desert; it is a pity to find one of them in such
a state of degradation—"
    "But
it would be an even greater pity, would it not, to find a member of the
superior British race in that condition?" The words, couched in the purest
English, came from the fallen man. His lips writhed in a sardonic smile, and he
went on, "I regret to disappoint you, madam. I thank you for your
attentions. And I beg you will allow me to return to my gutter in peace."
    He
attempted to rise, but sank back, swooning. I took advantage of his helpless
state to pluck the filthy turban and the underlying brown felt libdeh (cap)
from his head. No wonder he had resisted my attempts to remove them! I had
known Berbers with blue or gray eyes, but never one with hair of that peculiar
red-gold that is the hallmark of the northern peoples. Strands of silver
intertwined with the gold. Yet as I examined the sun-browned countenance,
further darkened (as Ramses had said) by a layer of grime, I realized it was
that of a young man. What terrible tragedy had rendered him prematurely gray?
Or was it the result of dissipation and drugs?
    My
cogitations were rudely interrupted by Emerson, who had concluded his
discussion with Abu and appeared in excellent spirits. This is often the case
with Emerson after he has scolded someone.
    "So
Ramses' hero is an Englishman? A Scot, rather, I think. He would not thank you
for the error, Ramses."
    He
bent over the young man. "You had better return with us to the hotel, my
friend."
    The
gentleman—for such he must be, from his educated accent—glared malevolently and
impartially upon us all. "If you wish to repay me for any fancied service,
you can do so by leaving me at liberty to do as I like."
    "I
am in complete sympathy with your desire for privacy and independence,"
Emerson said. "I do not wish to reward you; I wish to offer you a
position."
    "What?"
Astonishment smoothed the scowl from the young man's brow and gave his
countenance an ingenuous look that made me yearn to