reverently to stand under the colonnade within the door?  As well, perhaps, one might ask how men could be inspired to raise such a perfect building to a deity with the face of a hawk?  But Horus was not the god of crocodiles, but a god of the sun.  And his power to inspire men must have been vast; for the greatest concentration in stone in Egypt, and, I suppose, in the whole world, the Sphinx, as De Rouge proved by an inscription at Edfu, was a representation of Horus transformed to conquer Typhon.  The Sphinx and Edfu!  For such marvels we ought to bless the hawk-headed god.  And if we forget the hawk, which one meets so perpetually upon the walls of tombs and temples, and identify Horus rather with the Greek Apollo, the yellow-haired god of the sun, driving “westerly all day in his flaming chariot,” and shooting his golden arrows at the happy world beneath, we can be at peace with those dead Egyptians.  For every pilgrim who goes to Edfu to-day is surely a worshipper of the solar aspect of Horus.  As long as the world lasts there will be sun-worshippers.  Every brown man upon the Nile is one, and every good American who crosses the ocean and comes at last into the sombre wonder of Edfu, and I was one upon the deck of the Loulia.

And we all worship as yet in the dark, as in the exquisite dark, like faith, of the Holy of Holies of Horus.

XVI

PHILAE

As I drew slowly nearer and nearer to the home of “the great Enchantress,” or, as Isis was also called in bygone days, “the Lady of Philae,” the land began to change in character, to be full of a new and barbaric meaning.  In recent years I have paid many visits to northern Africa, but only to Tunisia and Algeria, countries that are wilder looking, and much wilder seeming than Egypt.  Now, as I approached Assuan, I seemed at last to be also approaching the real, the intense Africa that I had known in the Sahara, the enigmatic siren, savage and strange and wonderful, whom the typical Ouled Nail, crowned with gold, and tufted with ostrich plumes, painted with kohl, tattooed, and perfumed, hung with golden coins and amulets, and framed in plaits of coarse, false hair, represents indifferently to the eyes of the travelling stranger.  For at last I saw the sands that I love creeping down to the banks of the Nile.  And they brought with them that wonderful air which belongs only to them—­the air that dwells among the dunes in the solitary places, that is like the cool touch of Liberty upon the face of a man, that makes the brown child of the nomad as lithe, tireless, and fierce-spirited as a young panther, and sets flame in the eyes of the Arab horse, and gives speed of the wind to the Sloughi.  The true lover of the desert can never rid his soul of its passion for the sands, and now my heart leaped as I stole into their pure embraces, as I saw to right and left amber curves and sheeny recesses, shining ridges and