The next thing that I found was a parchment carefully rolled up.I unrolled it, and seeing that it was also in Vincey's handwriting, and headed "Translation of the Uncial Greek writing on the Potsherd," put it down by the letter.Then followed another ancient roll of parchment, that had become yellow and crinkled with the passage of years.This I also unrolled.It was likewise a translation of the same Greek original, but into black-letter Latin this time, which at the first glance appeared to me from the style and character to date from somewhere about the beginning of the sixteenth century.Immediately beneath this roll was something hard and heavy, wrapped up in yellow linen, and reposing upon another.layer of the fibrous material.Slowly and carefully we unrolled the linen, exposing to view a very large but undoubtedly ancient potsherd of a dirty yellow color! This potsherd had, in my judgment, once been a part of an ordinary amphora of medium size.For the rest, it measured ten and a half inches in length by seven in width, was about a quarter of an inch thick, and densely covered on the convex side that lay towards the bottom of the box with writing in the later uncial Greek character, faded here and there, but for the most part perfectly legible, the inscription having evidently been executed with the greatest care, and by means of a reed pen, such as the ancients often used.I must not forget to mention that in some remote age this wonderful fragment had been broken in two, and rejoined by means of cement and eight long rivets.
Also there were numerous inscriptions on the inner side, but these were of the most erratic character, and had clearly been made by different hands and in many different ages, and of them, together with the writings on the parchments, I shall have to speak presently.
"Is there anything more?" asked Leo, in a kind of excited whisper.
I groped about, and produced something hard, done up in a little linen bag.Out of the bag we took first a very beautiful miniature done upon ivory, and, secondly, a small chocolate colored composition scarabaeus, marked thus:
[graphic omitted]
symbols which, we have since ascertained, mean "Suten se Ra^," which is, being translated, the "Royal Son of Ra^ or the Sun." The miniature was a picture of Leo's Greek mother, a lovely, dark-eyed creature.On the back of it was written in poor Vincey's handwriting, "My beloved wife.""That is all," I said.
"Very well," answered Leo, putting down the miniature, at which he had been gazing affectionately; "and now let us read the letter," and without further ado he broke the seal, and read aloud as follows:
"MY SON LEOWhen you open this, if you ever live to do so, you will have attained to manhood, and I shall have been long enough dead to be absolutely forgotten by nearly all who knew me.Yet in reading it remember that I have been, and for anything you know may still be, and that in it, through this link of pen and paper, I stretch out my hand to you across the gulf of death, and my voice speaks to you from the unutterable silence of the grave.Though I am dead, and no memory of me remains in your mind, yet am I with you in this hour that you read.Since your birth to this day Ihave scarcely seen your face.Forgive me this.Your life supplanted the life of one whom I loved better than women are often loved, and the bitterness of it endureth yet.Had I lived I should in time have conquered this foolish feeling, but I am not destined to live.My sufferings, physical and mental, are more than I can bear, and when such small arrangements as Ihave to make for your future well-being are completed it is my intention to put a period to them.May God forgive me if I do wrong.At the best I could not live more than another year.""So he killed himself," I exclaimed."I thought so.""And now," Leo went on, without replying, "enough of myself.What has to be said belongs to you who live, not to me, who am dead, and almost as much forgotten as though I had never been.Holly, my friend (to whom, if he will accept the trust, it is my intention to confide you), will have told you something of the extraordinary antiquity of your race.In the contents of this casket you will find sufficient to prove it.
The strange legend that you will find inscribed by your remote ancestress upon the potsherd was communicated to me by my father on his deathbed, and took a strong hold upon-my imagination.When I was only nineteen years of age I determined, as, to his misfortune, did one of ancestors about the time of Elizabeth, to investigate its truth.Into all that befell me I cannot enter now.
But this I saw with my own eyes.On the coast of Africa, in a hitherto unexplored region, some distance to the north of where the Zambesi falls into the sea, there is a headland, at the extremity of which a peak towers up, shaped like the head of a negro, similar to that of which the writing speaks.I landed there, and learned from a wandering native, who had been cast out by his people because of some crime which he had committed, that far inland are great mountains, shaped like cups, and caves surrounded by measureless swamps.
I learned also that the people there speak a dialect of Arabic, and are ruled over by a _i_ beautiful white woman _i_ who is seldom seen by them, but who is reported to have power over all things living and dead.Two days after I had ascertained this the man died of fever contracted in crossing the swamps, and Iwas forced, by want of provisions and by symptoms of an illness which afterwards prostrated me, to take to my dhow again.
