ut.

And it was the man this time who tackled the situation.

"I am your guide. I know the way in the dark."

He spoke in English as he swept the girl into his arms, carrying her
like a feather down the great temple where perchance he had held her
against his heart century upon century ago, even when the flowers and
animals had been brought from Syria.

"May I drive you home? I should love to," he said, as he placed her on
her feet near the car. He spoke in English, with an eagerness out of
keeping with the trivial request, and which was merely the expression
of a desire to be with her under commonplace circumstances.

"Please do. I don't think I could--I am so tired."

The _gafir_ was accustomed to the strange habits of the white people,
but, although almost drunken with slumber, he peered closely and
furtively at the driver.

"Thank you so much," said Damaris gravely, with her hand against a mark
upon her cheek caused by the pressure of an amulet made of a
scarab-shaped emerald in a dull gold setting, and which Hugh Carden Ali
wore night and day above his heart. "Is there anything else as
wonderful to see as the Temple?"

"Deir el-Bahari."

The man spoke curtly and made no further comment; not for him was it to
offer himself as guide.

"Ah! yes, of course--but people go to it in crowds, and one has to
follow behind a guide in a procession."

"One is not obliged to return with the crowd, nor to listen to the
dragoman, who knows nothing about the incense-trees of Punt which were
planted upon the terrace to perfume the air under the light of the full
moon, in the days of Queen Hatshepu."

With apparent abruptness she ended the conversation:

"I share my godmother's great faith in you. Good night."

She put out her hand as he salaamed with hands to brow and lips and
heart. Perhaps that was why he failed to see it.

Or was it, perhaps, that he still felt the softness of her against his
heart?

If you are dying of thirst, one drop of water will not assuage you!

CHAPTER XVIII

"_A handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse_."

I KINGS.

Whilst Damaris was trying to soothe her wounded pride at Karnak, Ben
Kelham was suffering the tortures of the nethermost pit down Assouan
way.

His heart was not in "lion" at all, it was literally at Damaris' feet.

He had not rushed away in pique after her refusal of him on the night
of the fancy-dress ball; nor with any