A tavern of the horrible village in the light of an electric lamp.  It reeks of absinthe, this desert tavern, in which we warm ourselves at a little smoking fire.  It has been hastily built of old tin boxes, of the debris of whisky cases, and by way of mural decoration the landlord, an ignorant Maltese, has pasted everywhere pictures cut from our European pornographic newspapers.  During our hours of waiting, Nubians and Arabians follow one another hither, asking for drink, and are supplied with brimming glassfuls of our alcoholic beverages.  They are the workers in the new factories who were formerly healthy beings, living in the open air.  But now their faces are stained with coal dust, and their haggard eyes look unhappy and ill.

*****

The rising of the moon is fortunately at hand.  Once more in our boat we make our way slowly towards the sad rock which to-day is Philae.  The wind has fallen with the night, as happens almost invariably in this country in winter, and the lake is calm.  To the mournful yellow sky has succeeded one that is blue-black, infinitely distant, where the stars of Egypt scintillate in myriads.

A great glimmering light shows now in the east and at length the full moon rises, not blood-coloured as in our climates but straightway very luminous, and surrounded by an aureole of a kind of mist, caused by the eternal dust of the sands.  And when we return to the baseless kiosk—­lulled always by the Nubian song of the boatmen—­a great disc is already illuminating everything with a gentle splendour.  As our little boat winds in and out, we see the great ruddy disc passing and repassing between the high columns, so striking in their archaism, whose images are repeated in the water, that is now grown calm—­more than ever a kiosk of dreamland, a kiosk of old-world magic.

In returning to the temple of the goddess, we follow for a second time the submerged road between the capitals and friezes of the colonnade which emerge like a row of little reefs.

In the uncovered hall which forms the entrance to the temple, it is still dark between the sovereign granites.  Let us moor our boat against one of the walls and await the good pleasure of the moon.  As soon as she shall have risen high enough to cast her light here, we shall see clearly.

It begins by a rosy glimmer on the summit of the pylons; and then takes the form of a luminous triangle, very clearly defined, which grows gradually larger on the immense wall.  Little by little it descends towards the base of the temple, revealing to us by degrees the intimidating presence of the bas-reliefs, the gods, goddesses and hieroglyphs, and the assemblies of people who make signs among themselves.  We are no longer alone—­a whole world of phantoms has been evoked around us by the moon, some little, some very large.  They had been hiding there in the shadow and now suddenly they recommence their mute conversations, without breaking the profound silence,