and flowing hair, a Turk elegantly dressed, Mohammed in his decorous brown robes and snow-white turban, and several fellaheen.  As the boat moved off the Abab’deh blazed away with their guns and Osman Effendi with a sort of blunderbuss, and as we dropped down the river there was a general firing; even Todoros (Theodore), the Coptic Mallim, popped off his American revolver.  Omar keeping up a return with Alick’s old horse pistols which are much admired here on account of the excessive noise they make.

Poor old Ismain, who always thought I was Mme. Belzoni and wanted to take me up to Abou Simbel to meet my husband, was in dire distress that he could not go with me to Cairo.  He declared he was still shedeed (strong enough to take care of me and to fight).  He is ninety-seven and only remembers fifty or sixty years ago and old wild times—­a splendid old man, handsome and erect.  I used to give him coffee and listen to his old stories which had won his heart.  His grandson, the quiet, rather stately, Mohammed who is guard of the house I lived in, forgot all his Muslim dignity, broke down in the middle of his set speech and flung himself down and kissed and hugged my knees and cried.  He had got some notion of impending ill-luck, I found, and was unhappy at our departure—­and the backsheesh failed to console him.  Sheykh Yussuf was to come with me, but a brother of his just wrote word that he was coming back from the Hejaz where he had been with the troops in which he is serving his time; I was very sorry to lose his company.  Fancy how dreadfully irregular for one of the Ulema and a heretical woman to travel together.  What would our bishops say to a parson who did such a thing?  We had a lovely time on the river for three days, such moonlight nights, so soft and lovely; and we had a sailor who was as good as a professional singer, and who sang religious songs, which I observe excite people here far more than love songs.  One which began ’Remove my sins from before thy sight Oh God’ was really beautiful and touching, and I did not wonder at the tears which ran down Omar’s face.  A very pretty profane song was ‘Keep the wind from me Oh Lord, I fear it will hurt me’ (wind means love, which is like the Simoom) ’Alas! it has struck me and I am sick.  Why do ye bring the physician?  Oh physician put back thy medicine in the canister, for only he who has hurt can cure me.’  The masculine pronoun is always used instead of she in poetry out of decorum—­sometimes even in conversation.

October 23.—­Yesterday I met a Saedee—­a friend of the brother of the Sheykh of the wild Abab’deh, and as we stood handshaking and kissing our fingers in the road, some of the Anglo-Indian travellers passed and gazed with fierce disgust; the handsome Hassan, being black, was such a flagrant case of a ‘native.’  Mutter dear, it is heart-breaking to see what we are sending to India now.  The mail days are dreaded,