y could not last. He could not hug the protecting
Pendletons to him forever.

Nor did he want to. They waned upon him. Mrs. Pendleton's
conversation was a perpetual, "Do look at--!" or dissertations from
the guide books--already she had imparted a great deal of Flinders
Petrie to him about his tombs. Mr. Pendleton was neither
enthusiastic nor voluble, but he was attacking the objects of their
travels in the same thorough-going spirit that he had attacked and
surmounted the industrial obstacles of his career, and he went to a
great deal of persistent trouble to ascertain the exact dates of
passing mosques and the conformations of their arches.

The travelers had already "done" the Citadel. They had climbed its
rocky hill, they had viewed the Mahomet Ali mosque and its columns
and its carpets and had taken their guide's and their guidebook's
word that it was an inferior structure although so amazingly
effective from below; they had looked studiously down upon the city
and tried to distinguish its minarets and towers and ancient gates,
they had viewed with proper quizzicalness the imprint in the stone
parapet of the hoof of that blindfolded horse which the last of the
Mamelukes, cornered and betrayed, had spurred from the heights.

So now, no duty upon them, Ryder led them past the Citadel, up the
Mokattam hills behind it, to that hilltop on which stood the little
ancient mosque of the Sheykh-el-Gauchy, where the sunset spaces
flowed round them like a sea of light and the world dropped into
miniature at their feet.

Below them, in a golden haze, Cairo's domes and minarets were
shining like a city of dreams. To the north, toy fields, vivid
green, of rice and cotton lands, and the silver thread of the
winding Nile, and all beyond, west and southwest, the vast,
illimitable stretch of desert, shimmering in the opalescent air,
sweeping on to the farthest edge of blue horizon.

"A nice resting place," said Jack Ryder appreciatively of the tomb
of the Sheykh-el-Gauchy.

"I presume the date is given," Mr. Pendleton was murmuring, as he
began to ferret with his Baedecker.

Mrs. Pendleton sighed sentimentally. "He must have been very fond of
nature."

"He was very distrustful of his wives," said Ryder, grinning. "He
had three of them, all young and beautiful."

"I thought you said he was a saint?" murmured Jinny, to which
interpolation he responded, "Wouldn't three wives make any man a
saint?" and resumed his narrative.