"My dear Peabody," said Emerson, "pray correct me if I am mistaken; but I sense a diminution of that restless ardor for living that is so noted a characteristic of yours, particularly upon occasions such as this. Since that happy day that saw us united, never a cloud has dimmed the beaming orb of matrimonial bliss; and that remarkable circumstance derives, I am certain, from the perfect communion that marks our union. Confide, I implore, in the fortunate man whose designated role is to support and shelter you, and whose greatest happiness is to share your own."

I felt certain Emerson must have worked this speech out in advance. No one talks like that in the course of ordinary conversation.

I knew, however, that the formality of his speech failed adequately to express the sincere devotion that had inspired it. My dear Emerson and I have been of one mind and one heart ever since the day we met in the Egyptian Museum of Boulaq. (In actual fact, our first meeting was distinctly acrimonious. I was a mere tourist at that time, on my maiden visit to the land of the pharaohs; and yet, scarcely had I set foot on that fabled soil than the bright flame of Egyptological fervor was kindled in my bosom, a flame that soon became a roaring conflagration. Little did I suspect, that day in the museum, as I energetically defended myself against the unwarranted criticisms hurled at me by the fascinating stranger, that we would soon meet again, under even more romantic circumstances, in an abandoned tomb at El Amarna. The setting, at least, was romantic. Emerson, I confess, was not. However, a subtle instinct told me that beneath Emerson's caustic remarks and black scowls his heart beat only for me, and, as events proved, I was correct.)

His tender discernment was not at fault. A dark foreboding did indeed shadow the joy that would normally have flooded my being at such a time. We stood on the deck of the vessel that had borne us swiftly across the broad Mediterranean; the breeze of its passage across the blue waters ruffled our hair and tugged at our garments. Ahead we could see the Egyptian coast, where we would land before the day was over. We were about to enter upon another season of archaeological investigation, the most recent of many we had shared. Soon we would be exploring the stifling, bat-infested corridors of one pyramid and the muddy, flooded burial chamber of another -- scenes that would under ordinary circumstances have inspired in me a shiver of rapturous anticipation. How many other women -- particularly in that final decade of the nineteenth century -- had so many reasons to rejoice?

Emerson -- who prefers to be addressed by his surname, since he considers "Radcliffe" affected and effeminate (his very words) -- had chosen me as his equal partner, not only in marriage, but in the profession we both have the honor to adorn. Emerson is the finest excavator of Egyptian antiquities the world has seen. I do not doubt his name will be revered as "The Father of Scientific Excavation" as long as civilization endures upon this troubled globe. And my name -- the name of Amelia Peabody Emerson -- will be enshrined alongside his.

Forgive my enthusiasm, dear Reader. The contemplation of Emerson's excellent qualities never fails to arouse emotion. Nor is his excellence restricted to his intellectual qualities. I feel no shame in confessing that his physical attributes were not the least of the elements that made me decide to accept his proposal of marriage. From the raven hair upon his broad brow to the dimple (which he prefers to call a cleft) in his chin, he is a model of masculine strength and good looks.

Emerson appears to be equally appreciative of my physical attributes. Candidly, I have never fully understood this attitude. Mine is not a type of beauty I admire. Features rather less pronounced, eyes of a softer and paler hue, a figure greater in stature and more restrained in the region above the waist, locks of sunny gold instead of jetty black -- these are my ideals of female loveliness. Luckily for me, Emerson does not share them.

His large brown hand lay next to mine on the rail of the vessel. It was not the hand of a gentleman; but to me the callouses and scars that marked those tanned and stalwart members were badges of honor. I remembered the occasions on which they had wielded weapons or tools in the course of his labors; and other occasions on which they had demonstrated a delicacy of touch that induced the most remarkable of sensations.

Emerson has many admirable qualities, but patience is not one of them. Lost in my reveries, I failed to respond at once to his question. He seized me by the shoulders and spun me around to face him. His blue eyes blazed like sapphires, his lips curled back from his white teeth, and the dimple in his chin quivered ominously.

"Why the devil don't you answer me?" he shouted. "How can you remain unmoved by such an appeal? What ails you, Peabody? I will be cursed if I can understand women. You ought to be on your knees thanking heaven -- and ME -- for the happiness in store for you. It wasn't easy, you know, persuading de Morgan to give up the site to us; it required all the subtle tact of which I am capable. No one but I could have done it. No one but I would have done it. And how do you repay me? By sighing and moping!"

It would have been immediately apparent, to anyone familiar with the circumstances he described, that Emerson was again engaging in his endearing habit of self-deception. The Director of the Antiquities Service, M. de Morgan, had yielded to us the archaeological site at which he himself had worked the previous year, and which had already produced a number of remarkable discoveries. However, Emerson's subtle tact, a quality that exists only in his imagination, had nothing to do with it. I was not precisely sure what had produced M. de Morgan's change of heart. Or, to be more exact, I had certain suspicions I preferred not to think about. It was a natural progression from those suspicions to the excuse I now uttered to account for my somber mood.

"I am distressed about Ramses, Emerson. To have our son misbehave so badly, just when I had hoped we might get through one voyage without incident.... How many boys of eight, I wonder, have been threatened with keelhauling by the captain of a British merchant vessel?"

"That was merely the captain's bluff, maritime exaggeration," Emerson replied impatiently. "He would not dare do such a thing. You are not concerned about Ramses, Peabody; he does this sort of thing all the time, and you ought to be accustomed to it."

"This sort of thing, Emerson? Ramses has done a number of unspeakable things, but to the best of my knowledge this is the first time he has instigated a mutiny."

"Nonsense! Simply because a few ignorant seamen misunderstood his lectures on the theories of that fellow Marx--"

"He had no business lecturing the crew -- or being in their quarters in the first place. They gave him spirits, Emerson, I know they did. Even Ramses would not have spoken back to the captain in such terms had he not been intoxicated."

Emerson looked as if he wanted to protest, but since he obviously shared my opinion he found himself with nothing to say. I went on, "What is even more incomprehensible is why the crewmen should endure Ramses' presence, much less share their cherished grog, as I believe it is called. What possible pleasure could they find in his company?"

"One of them told me they enjoyed hearing him talk. 'Wot a mouth that nipper 'as' was the exact phrase."

A reluctant smile touched his lips as he spoke. Emerson's lips are among his most admirable features, chiseled and flexible, shaped with precise delicacy and yet not lacking in fullness. I felt my own lips respond with an answering smile. The untutored sailor had hit the nail on the head, so to speak.

"Forget Ramses," Emerson said. "I insist, Amelia, that you tell me what is worrying you."

Despite his smile he was not in good temper with me; his use of my proper name indicated as much. "Peabody," my maiden name, is the one he uses in moments of marital or professional approbation. With a sigh, I yielded.

"A strange foreboding has come over me, Emerson."

Emerson's eyes narrowed. "Indeed, Amelia?"

"I am only surprised you do not share it."

"I do not. At this moment my heart is suffused with the most agreeable sensations. Not a cloud--"

"You have made your point, Emerson. And if you will forgive my mentioning it, that particular metaphor--"

"Are you criticizing my rhetorical style, Amelia?"

"If you are going to take offense at the least little thing I say, Emerson, I cannot confide in you. I didn't want to cloud your happiness with my worries. Are you certain you want me to tell you?"

His head on one side, Emerson considered the question. "No," he said.

"You mean you are not certain, or--"

"I mean I don't want you to tell me. I don't want to hear about your foreboding."

"But you asked--"

"I have changed my mind."

"Then you share the sense of impending--"

"I didn't until this moment," Emerson snarled. "Curse it, Amelia--"

"How strange. I was certain the sympathy between us was complete."

The expression on Emerson's handsome countenance might have led an observer to suppose it was not sympathy but rising fury that caused his brows to lower and his eyes to snap. Since I had a few doubts on that subject myself, I hastened to satisfy the curiosity he had expressed some minutes earlier.

"Naturally I look forward to the work of this season. You know my enthusiasm for pyramids, and one could hardly find finer specimens than at Dahshoor. I particularly anticipate investigating the burial chamber of the Black Pyramid under more auspicious circumstances than those that surrounded our initial visit. One's critical faculties are not at their best after one has been dropped through Stygian darkness into a flooded subterranean pit and left to perish there."

Emerson had released his hold on my shoulders and turned back to the rail. His eyes fixed on the horizon, he said rapidly, "We will have to wait until later in the season to explore the Black Pyramid, after the inundation has receded to its lowest point. If the chamber is still flooded, perhaps a pump--"

"I have also considered that problem, my dear Emerson. However, that is not the issue at the present time."

"A hydraulic pump, with a hose--"

"Have you forgotten, Emerson, the circumstances under which we first made our acquaintance with the interior of the Black Pyramid?"

"I am not so elderly that I suffer from lapses of memory," Emerson replied waspishly. "Nor have I forgotten your response when I expressed my intention of dying in your arms. I confess I had expected a trifle more appreciation."

"You misunderstood me, Emerson. As I said at the time, I would be happy to have that arrangement prevail should the inevitability of doom be upon us. I never doubted for a moment, my dear, that you would find a way out. And I was quite correct."

I moved closer and leaned against his shoulder.

"Well," Emerson said gruffly. "We did get out, didn't we? Though if it had not been for Ramses--"

"Let's not talk about Ramses or the circumstances of our escape. You know what is on my mind, Emerson, for I am certain that it haunts you in equal measure. I will never forget our final encounter with the villain who was responsible for our near demise. I can still see his sneering smile and hear his contemptuous words. 'This, then, is farewell. I trust we shall not meet again.' "

Emerson's hands clenched on the rail with such force that the tendons stood out like whipcord. However, he did not speak, so I continued, "Nor can I forget the vow I made at the time. 'We will meet again, never fear; for I will make it my business to hunt you down and put an end to your nefarious activities.' " Emerson's hands relaxed. In a querulous tone he remarked, "You may have been thinking that at the time, Amelia, but you certainly didn't say so, not until that young whippersnapper from the Daily Yell interviewed you this past July. You deliberately deceived me about that interview, Amelia. You never told me you had invited O'Connell to my house. You smuggled him in and smuggled him out, and instructed my own servants to keep me in the dark--"

"I was only trying to spare you, my dear, knowing how you dislike Mr. O'Connell. After all, you once kicked him down the stairs--"

"I did no such thing," said Emerson, who honestly believed this. "But I might have done, if I had caught him in my drawing room smirking and leering at my wife and getting ready to print a pack of lies about me. His story was absolutely embarrassing. Besides, it was inaccurate."

"Now, Emerson, I must differ with you. I am certain one of us hurled that challenge at the Master Criminal; perhaps it was you who said it. In the interview I may have omitted a few of Ramses' activities, for I thoroughly disapprove of giving children too high an opinion of themselves. In every other way the report was entirely accurate, and it certainly did not embarrass ME. What, am I not to praise my husband for his courage and strength, and commend him for rescuing me from certain death?"

"Er, hmmm," said Emerson. "Well, but Peabody--"

"Mark my words, Emerson, we have not seen the last of that villain. He managed to escape us, but we foiled his plot and deprived him of his ill-gotten treasure. He is not the man to accept defeat without an attempt at revenge."

"How can you say that? You don't know a thing about the fellow, not even his nationality."

"He is an Englishman, Emerson. I am convinced of that."

"He spoke Arabic with as much facility as English," Emerson pointed out. "And you never saw his face when it was not swathed in hair. Never in my life have I seen such a beard! Would you know him if you saw him again sans beard?"

"Certainly."

"Humph." Emerson put his arm around my shoulders and drew me closer. "Well, Peabody, I admit that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to punch that swine on the nose, and if he intrudes into our affairs I will deal with him as he deserves. But I have no intention of looking for trouble. I have better things to do. Promise me, Peabody, that you will leave well enough alone."

"Oh, certainly, my dear Emerson."

"Promise."

"I promise I will not go looking for trouble."

"My darling Peabody!" Emerson drew me into a fond embrace, careless of the watching sailors.

I had every intention of keeping my word. Why look for trouble when trouble is certain to come looking for you?