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102 Yes, Mr. DeMille DeMille's eye caught his daughter, twelve-year-old Cecelia, who had been charging across the desert on her young roan. "Show them how you do it, sweetie," said DeMille. The pretty redhead rode briskly to the top of the grading, turned and urged her mount down the hill at a full gallop. The crowd cheered as the sand flew from dangerous furrows. The cow hands skulking at the fringes returned gingerly to their chariots. Best loved among the camp's apostles was an elongated Negro lad named Sam. He played the role of one of Pharaoh's Nubian slaves. His reverence for DeMille took on almost oper- atic proportions. Each morning Sam greeted DeMille outside the latter s tent with a low bow. To all inquiries regarding his part in the picture he replied, "Workin' for Mistah DeMille/' Once he was pressed as to the exact nature of the part. "Ah don't know but my name is Nubian," he said. When the time came DeMille personally coached Sam for his big scene. "You see, Sam, you're tired, It's very quiet and you're lying here dozing." Sam grinned approvingly. "And then," DeMille continued, "a lion comes up and licks the soles of your feet." Sam sat upright. For the first time his eyes lost that glaze of ritualistic affection for the producer. "All right, let's try it," said DeMille brusquely. But Sam was no longer in the vicinity, last observed shuffling across the sand dunes toward Los Angeles, loincloth and all. Stung by the defection, DeMille delayed the scene until a braver, even though less affectionate, substitute could be found. Among the Yemenites was one who repeatedly approached DeMille on matters of canonical propriety. He would object to certain rituals, saying they were in conflict with the Torah. And each time the solemn Yemenite indicated he was willing to straighten out the script on these points. Lacking time for academic discussion, DeMille made him a technical advisor,