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Chapter 39

           Asonebyoneofthescentedwrappingswereremoved,alongtressofnut-brownhairbecamevisible—then,thosewhowereengagedinthetask,usedmoreextremeanddelicateprecaution,Luciohimselfassistingthemtouncovertheface.Asthiswasdone,akindofsickhorrorstoleoverme—brownandstiffasparchmentthoughthefeatureswere,theircontourwasrecognisable—andwhenthewholecountenancewasexposedtoviewIcouldalmosthaveshriekedaloudthenameof‘Sibyl!’Foritwaslikeher!—dreadfullylike!—andasthefaint,half-aromatichalf-putridodoursoftheunrolledcerementscrepttowardsmeontheair,Ireeledbackgiddilyandcoveredmyeyes.IrresistiblyIwasremindedofthesubtleFrenchperfumeexhaledfromSibyl’sgarmentswhenIfoundherdead—that,andthissicklyeffluviaweresimilar!Amanstandingnearmesawmeswerveasthoughabouttofall,andcaughtmeonhisarm.

           "ThesunistoostrongforyouIfear?"hesaidkindly—"Thisclimatedoesnotsuiteverybody."

           Iforcedasmileandmurmuredsomethingaboutapassingtouchofvertigo—then,recoveringmyselfIgazedfearfullyatLucio,whowasstudyingthemummyattentivelywithacurioussmile.Presentlystoopingoverthecoffinhetookoutofitapieceoffinelywroughtgoldintheshapeofamedallion.

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