Such are some of the fascinating pictures shown to the receptive eye. The more intimately one comes to know the desert, the more it grows upon one, alleviating and lessening all toil and discomfort. Yet the last hours of the journey are those of greatest joy. When the first palm-village of cultivated land appears in sight, when the silver line of the sacred river is once more visible, gladness fills the heart. Men and beasts hasten as if to prove that the glad reality is not an illusion which may vanish in the mist. But the goal becomes more and more distinct; it seems as if we had never seen fresher colours, we fancy that nowhere else can there be trees so green, water so cool. With a final effort the camels push on, far too slowly for their impatient riders. Friendly greetings reach our ears. The village on the Nile is reached at last. From all the huts throng men and women, the aged and the children. Inquisitively they crowd around the camp, men and women curiously questioning, youths and maidens eager for the dance. Tambura and tarabuka, the zither and drum of the country, invite to motion; and the dancing-girls gladden the eyes of strangers and countrymen alike. Even the creaking of the water-wheel on the river, formerly a thousand times cursed, seems musical to-day. The evening brings fresh joys. Comfortably couched on the cool and elastic divan, the foreigner pledges the native in palm-wine or merieza—the nectar of the land; while the sound of zither and drum, and the rhythmic hand-clapping of the dancing youths and maidens form a merry accompaniment to the dainty banquet. But at length the approaching night begins to press its claims. Tambura and tarabuka sink into silence and the dance comes to an end; one after another, refreshed and well-content, the travellers seek rest. At length only one is left, a son of Khahira, the mother of the world, whom sleep still refuses to bless. From beside the flickering camp-fire comes his simple, tremulous song—
Sweet night, dear night, thou mak’st me sad,
Longer thou seem’st and alway longer;
No peace from thee I ever had,
With thee day’s pain grows ever stronger.
Oh, gentle night, how long, how long,
Since these poor eyes last saw her beauty!
Seeing aught else they do her wrong;
When will she come to claim their duty?
Oh, tender night, now hovering near,