The Fatma travelled slowly, crept upon the greenish-brown water almost with the deliberation of some monstrous water-insect.  For she journeyed against the tide, and as yet there was little wind, though what there was blew from the north.  The crew had to work hard in the burning sun-rays, going naked upon the bank and straining at the tow-rope.  Isaacson sat in a folding chair and watched their toil.  For years he had not known the sensation of watching in absolute idleness the strenuous exertion of others.  Those exertions emphasized his inertia, in which presently the mind began to take part with the body.  The Nile is exquisitely monotonous.  He was coming under its spell.  Far off and near, from the western and eastern banks of the river, he heard almost perpetually the creaking song of the sakeeyas, the water-wheels turned by oxen.  They made the leit motiv of this wonderful, idle life.  Antique and drowsy, with a plaintive drowsiness, was their continual music, which very gradually takes possession of the lonely voyager’s soul.  The shaduf men, in their long lines leading the eyes towards the south, sang to the almost brazen sky.  And heat reigned over all.

Was this pursuit?  Where was the Loulia? To what secret place had she crept against the repelling tide?  It began to seem to Isaacson that he scarcely cared to know.  He was forgetting his reason for coming to Egypt.  He was forgetting his friend, his enemy; he was forgetting everything.  The heat increased.  The puffs of wind died down.  Towards noon the Reis tied up, that the sweating crew might rest.

A table was laid on deck, and Isaacson lunched under an awning.  When he had finished and the Egyptian waiter had cleared away, Hassan came to stand beside his master and entertain him with conversation.

“Are there many orange plantations on the Nile?” asked Isaacson, presently, looking towards the bank, which was broken just here and showed a vista of trees.

Hassan spoke of Mahmoud Baroudi.  Once again Isaacson heard of him, and now of his almost legendary wealth.  Then came a flood of gossip in pigeon-English.  Hamza was presently mentioned, and Isaacson learnt of Hamza’s pilgrimage to Mecca with Mahmoud Baroudi, and of his present service with “my Lord Arminigel” upon the Loulia.  Isaacson did not say that he knew “my Lord.”  He kept his counsel, and he listened, till at last Hassan’s volubility seemed exhausted.  The crew were sleeping now.  There was no prospect of immediate departure, and, to create a diversion, Hassan suggested a walk through the orange gardens to the house they guarded closely.

Lazily Isaacson agreed.  He and the guide crossed the gangway, and soon disappeared into the Villa of the Night of Gold.

When the heat grew less, as the day was declining, once more the Fatma crept slowly on her way.  She drew ever towards the south with the deliberation of a water-insect which yet had a purpose that kept it on its journey.