"Yes, it's a whimsical freak of fortune which has sent men from a little
island in the Atlantic to administer the land of the Pharaohs," remarked
Cecil Brown. "We shall pass away again, and never leave a trace among
these successive races who have held the country, for it is not an
Anglo-Saxon custom to write their deeds upon rocks. I dare say that the
remains of a Cairo drainage system will be our most permanent record,
unless they prove a thousand years hence that it was the work of the
Hyksos kings. But here is the shore party come back."

Down below they could hear the mellow Irish accents of Mrs. Belmont and
the deep voice of her husband, the iron-grey rifle-shot. Mr. Stuart,
the fat Birmingham clergyman, was thrashing out a question of piastres
with a noisy donkey-boy, and the others were joining in with chaff and
advice. Then the hubbub died away, the party from above came down the
ladder, there were "good-nights," the shutting of doors, and the little
steamer lay silent, dark, and motionless in the shadow of the high Halfa
bank. And beyond this one point of civilisation and of comfort there
lay the limitless, savage, unchangeable desert, straw-coloured and
dream-like in the moonlight, mottled over with the black shadows of the
hills.

CHAPTER III.

"Stoppa! Backa!" cried the native pilot to the European engineer.

The bluff bows of the stern-wheeler had squelched into the soft brown
mud, and the current had swept the boat alongside the bank. The long
gangway was thrown across, and the six tall soldiers of the Soudanese
escort filed along it, their light-blue gold-trimmed zouave uniforms,
and their jaunty yellow and red forage-caps, showing up bravely in the
clear morning light. Above them, on the top of the bank, was ranged the
line of donkeys, and the air was full of the clamour of the boys.
In shrill strident voices each was crying out the virtues of his own
beast, and abusing that of his neighbour.

Colonel Cochrane and Mr. Belmont stood together in the bows, each
wearing the broad white puggareed hat of the tourist. Miss Adams and
her niece leaned against the rail beside them.

"Sorry your wife isn't coming, Belmont," said the Colonel.

"I think she had a touch of the sun yesterday. Her head aches very
badly."

His voice was strong and thick like his figure.

"I should stay to keep her company, Mr. Belmont," said the little
American old maid; "but I learn that Mrs. Shlesinger