“Ibrahim!  Ibrahim!”

“My lady!”

He came, striding up the bank.

“Take my hand!  Help me!  Quickly!”

She almost threw herself down the bank.

“Where is the boat—­ah!”

She stumbled as she got into it, and nearly fell.

“Push off!”

She sat straight up on the hard, narrow bench, and stared at the lights on the Loulia.

“There’s a girl on board,” she said, in a minute.

“Yes, my lady, one girl.  Whether Mahmoud Baroudi likin’ we comin’ I dunno.”

“Ibrahim!”

“My lady!”

“Directly I go on board the Loulia, you are to go.  Take the boat straight back to Luxor.”

“I leavin’ you?”

He looked relieved.

“Yes.  I’ll—­I’ll come back in Baroudi’s felucca.”

“I quite well stayin’, waitin’ till you ready.”

“No, no.  I don’t wish that.  Promise me you will take the boat away at once.”

“All what you want you must have,” he murmured.

“How loudly the sailors are singing!” she said.

Now they were drawing near to the Loulia.  Mrs. Armine, with fierce eyes, gazed at the lighted cabin windows, at the upper deck, at the balcony in the stern where so often she had sat with Nigel.  She was on fire with eagerness; she was the prey of an excitement that made her forget all her bodily fatigue, forget everything except that at last she was close to Baroudi.  Already her husband had ceased to exist for her.  He was gone for ever with the past.  Not only the river but a great gulf, never to be bridged, divided them.

“Baroudi!  Baroudi!  Baroudi!”

She could belong to Baroudi openly at last.  In this moment she even forgot herself, forgot to think of her appearance.  Within her there was a woman who could genuinely feel.  And that woman asserted herself now.

The boat touched the Loulia’s side.  A Nubian appeared.  The singing on board abruptly ceased.  Mrs. Armine quickly stood up in the boat.

“Go to Luxor, Ibrahim!  Go at once!”

“I goin’ quick, my lady.”

She sprang on board and stood to see him go.  Only when the boat had diminished upon the dark water did she turn round.  She was face to face with Hamza.

“Hamza!” she said, startled.

His almond-shaped eyes regarded her, and she thought a menace was in them.  Even in the midst of her fiery excitement she felt a touch of something that was cold as fear is cold.

“Yes,” he said.

“I must see Mahmoud Baroudi.”

He did not move.  His expression did not change.  The Nubians, squatting in a circle on the deck a little way off, looked at her calmly, almost as animals look at something they have very often seen.

“Where is he?” she said.  “Where is he?”

And abruptly she went down the steps, under the golden letters, and into the first saloon.  It was lit up, but no one was there.  She hurried on down the passage, pulled aside the orange-coloured curtain, and came into the room of the faskeeyeh.