r
that anything is to be got for the travellers. We had to ask the Nazir
in Edfou to _order_ a man to sell us charcoal. People do without sugar,
and smoke green tobacco, and eat beans, etc., etc. Soon we must do
likewise, for our stores are nearly exhausted.

We stopped at El-Moutaneh, and had a good dinner in the Mouniers'
handsome house, and they gave me a loaf of sugar. Mme. Mounier described
Rachel's stay with them for three months at Luxor, in my house, where
they then lived. She hated it so, that on embarking to leave she turned
back and spat on the ground, and cursed the place inhabited by savages,
where she had been _ennuyee a mort_. Mme. Mounier fully sympathized with
her, and thought no _femme aimable_ could live with Arabs, who are not at
all _galants_. She is Levantine, and, I believe, half Arab herself, but
hates the life here, and hates the Muslims. As I write this I laugh to
think of _galanterie_ and _Arab_ in one sentence, and glance at 'my
brother' Yussuf, who is sleeping on a mat, quite overcome with the Simoom
(which is blowing) and the fast which he is keeping to-day, as the eve of
the _Eed-el-Kebir_ (great festival). This is the coolest place in the
village. The glass is only 95.5 degrees now (eleven a.m.) in the
darkened divan. The Kadee, and the Maohn, and Yussuf came together to
visit me, and when the others left he lay down to sleep. Omar is
sleeping in the passage, and Sally in her room. I alone don't sleep--but
the Simoom is terrible. Arthur runs about all day, sight-seeing and
drawing, and does not suffer at all from the heat. I can't walk now, as
the sand blisters my feet.

_Tuesday_, _May_ 17.--Yesterday the Simoom was awful, and last night I
slept on the terrace, and was very hot. To-day the north wind sprang up
at noon and revived us, though it is still 102 degrees in my divan. My
old 'great-grandfather' has come in for a pipe and coffee; he was
Belzoni's guide, and his eldest child was born seven days before the
French under Bonaparte marched into Luxor. He is superbly handsome and
erect, and very talkative, but only remembers old times, and takes me for
Mme. Belzoni. He is grandfather to Mahommed, the guard of this house,
and great-grandfather to my little Achmet. His grandsons have married
him to a tidy old woman to take care of him; he calls me 'My lady
grand-daughter,' and Omar he calls 'Mustapha,' and we salute him as
'grandfather.' I wish I could paint him; he