The walls of the temple of Imhotep had originally been completely covered with pictures of the gods, and hieroglyphic inscriptions; but the smoke of reeking hearths had long since blackened them, fanatical hands had never been wanting to deface them, and in many places they had been lime-washed and scrawled with Christian symbols or very unchristian mottoes, in Greek and the spoken dialect of the Egyptians.  The Arab and his men took their meal in what had been the great hall of the temple—­none of them drinking wine excepting the captain of the caravan, who was no Moslem but belonged to the Parsee sect of the Masdakites.

When the old merchant, sitting at a table by himself, had satisfied his hunger, he called this chief and desired him to load the bale containing the hanging on a litter between the two largest baggage camels, and to fasten it securely but so that it could easily be removed.

“It is done,” replied the Persian, as he wiped his thick moustache—­he was a magnificent man as tall and stalwart as an oak, with light flowing hair like a lion’s mane.

“So much the better,” said Haschim.  “Then come out with me.”  And he led the way to the palmgrove.

The sun had sunk to rest behind the pyramids, the Necropolis, and the Libyan hills; the eastern sky, and the bare limestone rock of Babylon on the opposite shore were shining with hues of indescribable diversity and beauty.  It seemed as though every variety of rose reared by the skilled gardeners of Arsinoe or Naukratis had yielded its hues, from golden buff to crimson and the deepest wine-tinted violet, to shed their magic glow on the plains, the peaks and gorges of the hills, with the swiftness of thought.

The old man’s heart beat high as he gazed at the scene; he drew a deep breath, and laying his slender hand on the Persian’s mighty arm he said:  “Your prophet, Masdak, taught that it was God’s will that no one should think himself more or less chosen than another, and that there should be neither rich nor poor on earth, but that every possession should belong to all in common.  Well, look around you here as I do.  The man who has not seen this has seen nothing.  There is no fairer scene here below and to whom does it belong?  To poor simple Salech yonder, whom we allowed to tramp half naked at our camels’ heels out of pity.—­It is his as much as it is yours or mine or the Khaliff’s.  God has given us all an equal share in the glory of his works, as your prophet would have it.  How much beauty is the common possession of our race!  Let us be thankful for it, Rustem, for indeed it is no small matter.—­But as to property, such as man may win or lose, that is quite a different matter.  We all start on the same race-course, and what you Masdakites ask is that lead should be tied to the feet of the swift so that no one should outstrip another; but that would be. . . .  Well, well!  Let us feast our eyes now on the marvellous beauty before us.  Look:  What just now was the purple of this flower is now deep ruby red; what before was a violet gleam now is the richest amethyst.  Do you see the golden fringe to those clouds?  It is like a setting.—­And all this is ours—­is yours and mine—­so long as we have eyes and heart to enjoy and be uplifted by it!”