He helped her on to her donkey.  Upon the beast he was going to ride were slung two ample panniers.  The fragile-looking Hamza, whose body was almost as strong and as flexible as mail, would run beside them—­to eternity, if need be—­on naked feet.

“Where are we going, Ibrahim?”

“We are goin’ this way, my lady.”

He gave a loud, an almost gasping, sigh.  Instantly his donkey started forward, followed by Mrs. Armine’s.  The broad river was left behind; they set their course toward the arid mountains of Libya.  Ibrahim kept always in front to lead the way.  He had pushed his tarbush to the back of his curly head, and as he rode he leaned backwards from his beast, sticking out his long legs, from which the wrinkling socks slipped down, showing his dark brown skin.  He began to sing to himself in a low and monotonous voice, occasionally interrupting his song to utter the loud sigh that urged the donkey on.  Hamza ran lightly beside Mrs. Armine.  He was dressed in white, and wore a white turban.  In his right hand he grasped a long piece of sugar-cane.  As he ran, holding himself quite straight, his face never changed its expression, his eyes were always fixed upon the mountains of Libya.

Upon the broad, flat lands that lay between the Nile and the ruins of Thebes the young crops shed a sharp green that looked like a wash of paint.  Here and there the miniature forests of doura stood up almost still in the sunshine.  Above the sturdy brakes of the sugar-cane the crested hoopoes flew, and the larks sang, fluttering their little wings as if in an almost hysterical ecstasy.  Although the time was winter, and the Christians’ Christmas was not far off, the soft airs seemed to be whispering all the sweet messages of the ardent spring that smiles over Eastern lands.  This was a world of young rapture, not careless, but softly intense with joy.  All things animate and inanimate were surely singing a love-song, effortless because it flowed from the very core of a heart that had never known sorrow.

“You are blossoming here!”

Nigel had said that to Mrs. Armine, and she thought of his words now, and she felt that to-day they were true.  Where was she going?  She did not care.  She was going under this singing sky, over this singing land, through this singing sunshine.  That was surely enough.  Once or twice she looked at Hamza, and, because he never looked at her, presently she spoke to him, making some remark about the weather in English.  He turned his head, fixed his unyielding eyes upon her, said “Yes,” and glanced away.  She asked him a question which demanded “No” for an answer.  This time he said “Yes,” but without looking at her.  Like a living bronze he ran on, lightly, swiftly, severely, towards the tiger-coloured mountains.  And something in Hamza now made Mrs. Armine wonder where they were going.  Already she had seen the ruins on the western shore of the Nile; she was familiar with Medinat-Habu, with Deir-al-Bahari, with Kurna, with the Ramesseum, with the tombs of the Kings and of the Queens.  They had landed at a point that lay to the south of Thebes, and now seemed to be making for Medinat-Habu.