off, both of them, at the height of the loins. But their muscular legs
have kept their proud, marching attitude, and each in one of the armless
hands, which reach to the end of the cloth that girds their loins,
clenches passionately the emblem of eternal life. And this Syenite
granite is so hard that time has not altered it in the least; in the
midst of the confusion of stones the thighs of these mutilated giants
gleam as if they had been polished yesterday.

Farther on we come upon the second pylons, foundered also, before which
stands a row of Pharaohs.

On every side the overthrown blocks display their utter confusion of
gigantic things in the midst of the sand which continues patiently
to bury them. And here now are the third pylons, flanked by their two
marching giants, who have neither head nor shoulders. And the road,
marked majestically still by the debris, continues to lead towards the
desert.

And then the fourth and last pylons, which seem at first sight to mark
the extremity of the ruins, the beginning of the desert nothingness.
Time-worn and uncrowned, but stiff and upright still, they seem to be
set there so solidly that nothing could ever overthrow them. The two
colossal statues which guard them on the right and left are seated on
thrones. One, that on the eastern side, has almost disappeared. But the
other stands out entire and white, with the whiteness of marble, against
the brown-coloured background of the enormous stretch of wall covered
with hieroglyphs. His face alone has been mutilated; and he preserves
still his imperious chin, his ears, his Sphinx's headgear, one might
almost say his meditative expression, before this deployment of the vast
solitude which seems to begin at his very feet.

Here however was only the boundary of the quarters of the God Amen. The
boundary of Thebes was much farther on, and the avenue which will lead
me directly to the home of the cat-headed goddesses extends farther
still to the old gates of the town; albeit you can scarcely distinguish
it between the double row of Krio-sphinxes all broken and well-nigh
buried.

The day falls, and the dust of Egypt, in accordance with its invariable
practice every evening, begins to resemble in the distance a powder of
gold. I look behind me from time to time at the giant who watches me,
seated at the foot of his pylon on which the history of a Pharaoh is
carved in one immense picture. Above him and above his wall, which grows