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kiltlike lower garment, was completely relaxed. Ramses stared in mounting disbelief. With his dark skin and bizarre costume he was as out of place in an English woodland as a tiger in a drawing room. There was something familiar about the aquiline features. "Tarek was right," the stranger remarked. "You have become a man."
    We have entertained a number of unusual guests in our home, but never had I seen one so extraordinary as the young man who was in the drawing room with Ramses and Nefret when I came down to tea. Barefoot and bareheaded, his body uncovered except for a brief skirt or kilt, he might have stepped out of an ancient Egyptian tomb painting. I stopped short; and Ramses said, "Mother, may I present Prince Merasen. He is the brother of Tarek, whom you surely remember." I am seldom at a loss for words, but on this occasion I was unable to do more than emit a wordless croak of surprise. Nefret hurried to me and took my arm. "Aunt Amelia, are you all right? Sit down, please." "A nice hot cup of tea," I gurgled, staring. The young man raised his hands to shoulder height and bowed. It was the same gesture shown in innumerable tomb paintings, a gesture of respect to the gods and to superiors. He was far more at ease than I. Well, but he had been prepared for me, and I certainly had not been prepared for him! "A nice whiskey and soda, instead?" said Ramses. He sounded a trifle sheepish. "I apologize, Mother. I didn't think to warn you." "Not at all," I replied, taking the glass he handed me. "Will you take a chair, Mr. ... Er ... Does he speak English?" "I speak very good" was the cool reply. "It is why Tarek sent me." "Tarek sent you?" I repeated stupidly. "Yes, Sitt Hakim. I am honored to see you. They tell many stories about you in the Holy City. And about the Father of Curses, and the Brother of Demons, and the Lady Nefret." "Father of Curses" was Emerson's Egyptian sobriquet (and well-deserved, I should add), as Sitt Hakim, "Lady Doctor," was mine. We had been known by those honorifics when we were last in the Holy City. If I remembered correctly, Ramses had not at that time acquired his nickname of "Brother of Demons" (a tribute to his supposedly supernatural talents). Merasen must have heard Ramses referred to by that name during his journey to England, perhaps from Egyptians in London who had given him directions to Amarna House. I nodded acknowledgment, sipping my whiskey, and trying to collect my scattered wits. The young man bore a certain resemblance to his brother, with his well-cut features and well-made frame--or rather, I told myself, his brother as I remembered him. He must be about eighteen, the same age Tarek had been ten years ago. "It is good to see you too," I said, politely if somewhat mendaciously--for I suspected his arrival meant trouble. It wasn't likely that Tarek would send an emissary all that long, dangerous way simply to say hello. "Er--Ramses, perhaps you can lend our guest some clothes." "I have clothes, English clothes." The boy indicated a bundle at his feet. "I will put them on?" It was a question, not an offer; I rose to the occasion, as any good hostess should when confronted with well-meaning eccentricity. Smiling, I shook my head. "Not if you would rather not. The weather is extremely warm." Nefret, who had exhibited growing signs of impatience, burst out, "Aunt Amelia, perhaps you can persuade Merasen to tell us why he is here. I doubt that he undertook that long, arduous journey simply to make our acquaintance." "My thought exactly," I agreed. "He has not confided in you and Ramses?" "No, he was too busy fighting with Ramses," Nefret said caustically. The boy grinned engagingly. "Tarek said Ramses would now be a man. I wished to see what sort of man." "You found out," said Ramses curtly. The overt antagonism and the touch of braggadocio were so unlike him I looked at him in surprise. Merasen only smiled more winningly. "And she"--a little bow in the direction of Nefret--"she is