“Shut up!” whispered the Colonel, and the party shuffled on down the line of the wall with their faces up and their big hats thrown backwards.  The sun behind them struck the old grey masonry with a brassy glare, and carried on to it the strange black shadows of the tourists, mixing them up with the grim, high-nosed, square-shouldered warriors, and the grotesque, rigid deities who lined it.  The broad shadow of the Reverend John Stuart, of Birmingham, smudged out both the heathen King and the god whom he worshipped.

“What’s this?” he was asking in his wheezy voice, pointing up with a yellow Assouan cane.

“That is a hippopotamus,” said the dragoman; and the tourists all tittered, for there was just a suspicion of Mr. Stuart himself in the carving.

“But it isn’t bigger than a little pig,” he protested.  “You see that the King is putting his spear through it with ease.”

“They make it small to show that it was a very small thing to the King,” said the dragoman.  “So you see that all the King’s prisoners do not exceed his knee—­which is not because he was so much taller, but so much more powerful.  You see that he is bigger than his horse, because he is a king and the other is only a horse.  The same way, these small women whom you see here and there are just his trivial little wives.”

“Well, now!” cried Miss Adams indignantly.  “If they had sculpted that King’s soul it would have needed a lens to see it.  Fancy his allowing his wives to be put in like that.”

“If he did it now, Miss Adams,” said the Frenchman, “he would have more fighting than ever in Mesopotamia.  But time brings revenge.  Perhaps the day will soon come when we have the picture of the big strong wife and the trivial little husband—­hein?”

Cecil Brown and Headingly had dropped behind, for the glib comments of the dragoman, and the empty, light-hearted chatter of the tourists jarred upon their sense of solemnity.  They stood in silence watching the grotesque procession, with its sun-hats and green veils, as it passed in the vivid sunshine down the front of the old grey wall.  Above them two crested hoopoes were fluttering and calling amid the ruins of the pylon.

“Isn’t it a sacrilege?” said the Oxford man at last.

“Well, now, I’m glad you feel that about it, because it’s how it always strikes me,” Headingly answered with feeling.  “I’m not quite clear in my own mind how these things should be approached—­if they are to be approached at all—­but I am sure this is not the way.  On the whole, I prefer the ruins that I have not seen to those which I have.”

The young diplomatist looked up with his peculiarly bright smile, which faded away too soon into his languid, blase mask.