I have a black slave—­a real one.  I looked at her little ears wondering they had not been bored for rings.  She fancied I wished them bored (she was sitting on the floor close at my side), and in a minute she stood up and showed me her ear with a great pin through it:  ‘Is that well, lady?’ the creature is eight years old.  The shock nearly made me faint.  What extremities of terror had reduced that little mind to such a state.  She is very good and gentle, and sews quite nicely already.  When she first came, she tells me, she thought I should eat her; now her one dread is that I should leave her behind.  She sings a wild song of joy to Maurice’s picture and about the little Sitt.  She was sent from Khartoum as a present to Mr. Thayer, who has no woman-servant at all.  He fetched me to look at her, and when I saw the terror-stricken creature being coarsely pulled about by his cook and groom, I said I would take her for the present.  Sally teaches her, and she is very good; but now she has set her whole little black soul upon me.  De Leo can give no opinion as to what I ought to do, as he knows little but Egypt, and thinks England rather like Norway, I fancy.  Only don’t let me be put in a dreadful mountain valley; I hear the drip, drip, drip of Eaux Bonnes in bad dreams still, when I am chilly and oppressed in my sleep.  I’ll write again soon, send this to Alick, please.

April 13, 1863:  Sir Alexander Duff Gordon

To Sir Alexander Duff Gordon.  CAIRO, April 13, 1863.

Dearest Alick,

You will have heard from my mother of my ill luck, falling sick again.  The fact is that the spring in Egypt is very trying, and I came down the river a full month too soon.  People do tell such lies about the heat.  To-day is the first warm day we have had; till now I have been shivering, and Sally too.  I have been out twice, and saw the holy Mahmaal rest for its first station outside the town, it is a deeply affecting sight—­all those men prepared to endure such hardship.  They halt among the tombs of the Khalifah, such a spot.  Omar’s eyes were full of tears and his voice shaking with emotion, as he talked about it and pointed out the Mahmaal and the Sheykh al-Gemel, who leads the sacred camel, naked to the waist with flowing hair.  Muslim piety is so unlike what Europeans think it is, so full of tender emotions, so much more sentimental than we imagine—­and it is wonderfully strong.  I used to hear Omar praying outside my door while I was so ill, ‘O God, make her better.  O my God, let her sleep,’ as naturally as we should say, ‘I hope she’ll have a good night.’

The Sultan’s coming is a kind of riddle.  No one knows what he wants.  The Pasha has ordered all the women of the lower classes to keep indoors while he is here.  Arab women are outspoken, and might shout out their grievances to the great Sultan.