just about cover the palm of your hand. The Egyptians called one of
their gods Khepera, or the beetle, and believed him to be the creator of
all things, so they used to make images of these beetles and put them in
their temples; you saw a huge one, you remember, on a pedestal at
Karnak, and any time you are in London you can see them at the British
Museum. There were also tiny images of them made in stone and amethyst
and porcelain, and almost anything else, and these were frequently
buried in the tombs with the mummies. Sometimes they had the name of the
person with whom they were buried inscribed on the back in hieroglyphic
writing, or the name of a god. These scarabs, as they are called, are
bought and worn in rings and ornaments by visitors. The natives quickly
found out that there was a demand for them, and as they could not always
find old genuine ones they set to work to make them! Hundreds of new
ones are palmed off as old in this way on unsuspecting tourists.

"Scarab!"

A solemn girl-child clad in a rust-coloured garment has come up on
seeing our donkeys halt and holds out a brilliant blue scarab for sale
in a hot little hand. She nods violently, repeating, "Scarab! Verry
old." "Found in tombs," says our donkey-boy gravely, willing to help her
to take us in. He picks it up and pretends to examine it carefully,
"Genuine anteekar," he pronounces. Laughing, we hand the "genuine
antique" back to its owner, knowing that it is probably "genuine
Birmingham," and then we canter after the rest of the party.

[Illustration: A NILE STEAMER.]

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE NILE

In my ears is the sound as of the tuning up of a thousand fiddles! I
hear the agonising scrape of strings, the squeal of the bows! I have
heard it all before at many a concert, but this time it is intensified a
thousandfold and penetrates even into my dreams. I imagine I am in a
concert hall and spring up wildly with the intention of getting outside
until the music begins, but the movement wakes me, and behold I am not
at a concert in London on a dim Sunday afternoon, but in a brilliantly
white two-berth cabin with the sun flooding in through the square
window! Peering out I see we are running smoothly along up-stream close
in to a high mud bank, and that is where the noise comes from. It is
caused by the squeaking of one wooden rod against another as hundreds of
Egyptian fellaheen raise the water from the Nile to moisten their crops.

It