We draw near to what was once the holy isle.  In places dying palm-trees, whose long trunks are to-day under water, still show their moistened plumes and give an appearance of inundation, almost of cataclysm.

Before coming to the sanctuary of Isis, we touch at the kiosk of Philae, which has been reproduced in the pictures of every age, and is as celebrated even as the Sphinx and the pyramids.  It used to stand on a pedestal of high rocks, and around it the date-trees swayed their bouquets of aerial palms.  To-day it has no longer a base; its columns rise separately from this kind of suspended lake.  It looks as if it had been constructed in the water for the purpose of some royal naumachy.  We enter with our boat—­a strange port indeed, in its ancient grandeur; a port of a nameless melancholy, particularly at this yellow hour of the closing twilight, and under these icy winds that come to us mercilessly from the neighbouring deserts.  And yet how adorable it is, this kiosk of Philae, in this the abandonment that precedes its downfall!  Its columns placed, as it were, upon something unstable, become thereby more slender, seem to raise higher still the stone foliage of their capitals.  A veritable kiosk of dreamland now, which one feels is about to disappear for ever under these waters which will subside no more!

And now, for another few moments, it grows quite light again, and tints of a warmer copper reappear in the sky.  Often in Egypt when the sun has set and you think the light is gone, this furtive recoloration of the air comes thus to surprise you, before the darkness finally descends.  The reddish tints seem to return to the slender shafts that surround us, and also, beyond, to the temple of the goddess, standing there like a sheer rock in the middle of this little sea, which the wind covers with foam.

On leaving the kiosk our boat—­on this deep usurping water, among the submerged palm-trees—­makes a detour in order to lead us to the temple by the road which the pilgrims of olden times used to travel on foot—­by that way which, a little while ago, was still magnificent, bordered with colonnades and statues.  But now the road is entirely submerged, and will never be seen again.  Between its double row of columns the water lifts us to the height of the capitals, which alone emerge and which we could touch with our hands.  It seems like some journey of the end of time, in a kind of deserted Venice, which is about to topple over, to sink and be forgotten.

We arrive at the temple.  Above our heads rise the enormous pylons, ornamented with figures in bas-relief:  an Isis who stretches out her arms as if she were making signs to us, and numerous other divinities gesticulating mysteriously.  The door which opens in the thickness of these walls is low, besides being half flooded, and gives on to depths already in darkness.  We row on and enter the sanctuary, and as soon as one boat has crossed the sacred threshold the boatmen