He recognized the
workmanship, having seen a dozen such in the museum in the park. He
knelt by it and ran a reverent hand over its painted surface. In many
colours were birds and beasts, and men in profile, and queer marks that
he knew to be picture-writing; processions of slaves and oxen, reapers
and water-bearers. The tints were fresh under their overlaying lacquer.
There was even a smell of varnish. He wondered if the contents--if
It--were in the same remarkable state of preservation. He rapped on the
thin wood--it was cedar, he thought, or perhaps sycamore. The sound was
musical, resonant; the same note that had vibrated how many thousands of
years before.
Nap came up to smell, seeming to suspect that the box might contain
food. He stretched his forepaws to the top of the case and betrayed
eagerness.
"Napoleon!" cried Bean sternly, putting the dog's complete name upon him
for the first time. He was banished to his couch and made to know that
leaving it would entail unpleasantness.
The thought of the Corsican came back with a new significance. In that
embodiment he had felt, perhaps dimly recalled, his Egyptian life. Had
he not been drawn irresistibly to Egypt? "In the shadow of the
pyramids," he had read in a history, "the conqueror of Italy dreamed of
the pomp and power of a crown and sceptre, and upon his return to France
from the Egyptian expedition, with characteristic energy he set himself
to work to bring the dream to pass--" It was plain enough.
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