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 ing the matter by the light of what we afterwards saw, I believe that it was fashioned by man, but whether or not this is so, there it stands, and sullenly stares from age to age out across the changing sea—there it stood two thousand years and more ago, when Amenartas, the Egyptian princess, and the wife of Leo’s remote ancestor Kallikrates, gazed upon its devilish face—and there I have no doubt it will still stand when as many centuries as are numbered between her day and our own are added to the year that bore us to oblivion.

‘What do you think of that, Job?’ I asked of our retainer, who was sitting on the edge of the boat, trying to get as much sunshine as possible, and generally looking uncommonly wretched, and I pointed to the fiery and demoniacal head.

‘Oh Lord, sir,’ answered Job, who now perceived the object for the first time, ‘I think that the old geneleman [sic] must have been sitting for his portrait on them rocks.’

I laughed, and the laugh woke up Leo.

‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘what’s the matter with me? I am all stiff—where is the dhow? Give me some brandy, please.’

‘You may be thankful that you are not stiffer, my boy,’ I answered. ‘The dhow is sunk, everybody on board her is drowned with the exception of us four, and your own life was only saved by a miracle’; and whilst Job, now that it was light enough, searched about in a locker for the brandy for which Leo asked, I told him the history of our night’s adventure.

‘Great Heavens!’ he said faintly; ‘and to think that we should have been chosen to live through it!’

By this time the brandy was forthcoming, and we all had a good pull at it, and thankful enough we were for it. Also