“Is everything ready, Ibrahim?”

“Everythin’.”

They went to the felucca and crossed the river.

At a point where there was a stretch of flat sandy soil on the western shore, Hamza, the praying donkey-boy, was calmly waiting with two large and splendidly groomed donkeys.  Mrs. Armine stepped out of the felucca, helped by Ibrahim, and the felucca at once put off, and began to return across the Nile.  The boatmen sang in deep and almost tragic voices as they plied the enormous oars.  Their voices faded away on the gleaming waste of water.

Mrs. Armine had stood close to the river listening to them.  When the long diminuendo was drawn back into a monotonous murmur which she could scarcely hear, she turned round with a sigh; and she had a strange feeling that a last link which had held her to civilization had snapped, and that she was now suddenly grasped by the dry, hot hands of Egypt.  As she turned she faced Hamza, who stood immediately before her, motionless as a statue, with his huge, almond-shaped eyes fixed unsmilingly upon her.

“May your day be happy!”

He uttered softly and gravely the Arabic greeting.  Mrs. Armine thanked him in English.

Why did she suddenly to-day feel that she lay in the hot breast of Egypt?  Why did she for the first time really feel the intimate spell of this land—­feel it in the warmth that caressed her, in the softness of the sand that lay beneath her feet, in the little wind that passed like a butterfly and in the words of Hamza, in his pose, in his look, in his silence?  Why?  Was it because she was no longer companioned by Nigel?

On the day of her arrival Nigel had pointed out Hamza to her.  Now and then she had seen him casually, but till to-day she had never looked at him carefully, with woman’s eyes that discern and appraise.

Hamza was of a perfectly different type from Ibrahim’s.  He was excessively slight, almost fragile, with little bones, delicate hands and feet, small shoulders, a narrow head, and a face that was like the face of a beautiful bronze, grave, still, enigmatic, almost inhuman in its complete repose and watchfulness—­a face that seemed to take all and to give absolutely nothing.  As Mrs. Armine looked at him she remembered the descriptive phrase that set him apart from all the people of Luxor.  He was “the praying donkey-boy.”

Why had Ibrahim engaged him for their expedition to-day?  She had never had him in her service before.

In a low voice she asked Ibrahim the question.

“He is a very good donkey-boy, but he is not for my lord Arminigel.”

Mrs. Armine wondered why, but she asked nothing more.  To-day she felt herself in the hands of Egypt, and of Egypt Ibrahim and Hamza were part.  If she were to enjoy to-day to the utmost, she felt that she must be passive.  And something within her seemed to tell her that in all that Ibrahim was doing he was guided by some very definite purpose.