e
face of a beautiful bronze, grave, still, enigmatic, almost inhuman in
its complete repose and watchfulness--a face that seemed to take all and
to give absolutely nothing. As Mrs. Armine looked at him she remembered
the descriptive phrase that set him apart from all the people of Luxor.
He was "the praying donkey-boy."

Why had Ibrahim engaged him for their expedition to-day? She had never
had him in her service before.

In a low voice she asked Ibrahim the question.

"He is a very good donkey-boy, but he is not for my lord Arminigel."

Mrs. Armine wondered why, but she asked nothing more. To-day she felt
herself in the hands of Egypt, and of Egypt Ibrahim and Hamza were part.
If she were to enjoy to-day to the utmost, she felt that she must be
passive. And something within her seemed to tell her that in all that
Ibrahim was doing he was guided by some very definite purpose.

He helped her on to her donkey. Upon the beast he was going to ride
were slung two ample panniers. The fragile-looking Hamza, whose body was
almost as strong and as flexible as mail, would run beside them--to
eternity, if need be--on naked feet.

"Where are we going, Ibrahim?"

"We are goin' this way, my lady."

He gave a loud, an almost gasping, sigh. Instantly his donkey started
forward, followed by Mrs. Armine's. The broad river was left behind;
they set their course toward the arid mountains of Libya. Ibrahim kept
always in front to lead the way. He had pushed his tarbush to the back
of his curly head, and as he rode he leaned backwards from his beast,
sticking out his long legs, from which the wrinkling socks slipped down,
showing his dark brown skin. He began to sing to himself in a low and
monotonous voice, occasionally interrupting his song to utter the loud
sigh that urged the donkey on. Hamza ran lightly beside Mrs. Armine. He
was dressed in white, and wore a white turban. In his right hand he
grasped a long piece of sugar-cane. As he ran, holding himself quite
straight, his face never changed its expression, his eyes were always
fixed upon the mountains of Libya.

Upon the broad, flat lands that lay between the Nile and the ruins of
Thebes the young crops shed a sharp green that looked like a wash of
paint. Here and there the miniature forests of doura stood up almost
still in the sunshine. Above the sturdy brakes of the sugar-cane the
crested hoopoes flew, and the larks sang, fluttering their little wings
as if in an almost