ne of two weeks ago
before leaving, and told you I was better. I am still rather weak,
however I ride my donkey and the weather has suddenly become gloriously
dry and cool. I rather shiver with the thermometer at 79 degrees--absurd
is it not, but I got so used to real heat.

I never wrote about my leaving Luxor or my journey, for our voyage was
quite tempestuous after the three first days and I fell ill as soon as I
was in my house here. I hired the boat for six purses (18 pounds) which
had taken Greeks up to Assouan selling groceries and strong drinks, but
the reis would not bring back their cargo of black slaves to dirty the
boat and picked us up at Luxor. We sailed at daybreak having waited all
one day because it was an unlucky day.

As I sat in the boat people kept coming to ask whether I was coming back
very anxiously and bringing fresh bread, eggs and things as presents, and
all the quality came to take leave and hope, _Inshallah_, I should soon
'come home to my village safe and bring the Master, please God, to see
them,' and then to say the _Fattah_ for a safe journey and my health. In
the morning the balconies of my house were filled with such a group to
see us sail--a party of wild Abab'deh with their long Arab guns and
flowing hair, a Turk elegantly dressed, Mohammed in his decorous brown
robes and snow-white turban, and several fellaheen. As the boat moved
off the Abab'deh blazed away with their guns and Osman Effendi with a
sort of blunderbuss, and as we dropped down the river there was a general
firing; even Todoros (Theodore), the Coptic Mallim, popped off his
American revolver. Omar keeping up a return with Alick's old horse
pistols which are much admired here on account of the excessive noise
they make.

Poor old Ismain, who always thought I was Mme. Belzoni and wanted to take
me up to Abou Simbel to meet my husband, was in dire distress that he
could not go with me to Cairo. He declared he was still _shedeed_
(strong enough to take care of me and to fight). He is ninety-seven and
only remembers fifty or sixty years ago and old wild times--a splendid
old man, handsome and erect. I used to give him coffee and listen to his
old stories which had won his heart. His grandson, the quiet, rather
stately, Mohammed who is guard of the house I lived in, forgot all his
Muslim dignity, broke down in the middle of his set speech and flung
himself down and kissed and hugged my knees and cried. He had go