“Yes; he comes here regularly at this time of year, expecting to meet old visitors to Egypt.”
“I see,” said Frank drily. Then to himself, “I wish he was at Jericho. I can’t talk about anything now but the desert.”
As they descended into the prettily lit-up hall and went out into the garden among the palm trees, the scene was attractive enough to fix any newcomer’s eyes; but Frank could see nothing but a long wide stretch of desert country, at the horizon of which were a few palms overshadowing dingy, sun-baked mud buildings, houses formed of the brick made of straw now as in the days when the taskmaster-beaten Israelitish bondmen put up such pitiful plaint.
“Where is the doctor?” said Frank.
“Over yonder on that seat,” replied the professor, as they were going down a sandy path towards a group of palms. “Ah, there’s my friend.”
Frank looked in the indicated direction, but he saw no English visitor. There was a stately looking turbaned figure, draped in white, standing in the dim shadowy light among the palms, and he seemed to catch sight of them at the same moment, and came softly forward, to stop short and make a low obeisance to each in turn.
“Well, Ibrahim, how are you?” said the professor sharply.
“His Excellency’s servant is well and happy now, for his soul rejoices to find that the dogs told lies. They said his Excellency would not come to El Caire until the war was over, and the Mahdi’s successor—may his fathers’ graves be defiled—had gone back to the other dogs of the far desert.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve come again. Frank, this is Sheikh Ibrahim, of the Dhur Tribe. And look here, Ibrahim, this is my friend and brother, Mr Frank Frere.”
“And my master,” said the Arab, with another grave and dignified reverence, speaking too, in spite of the flowery Eastern ornamentation, in excellent English. “His Excellency has come, then, to continue his search for the remains of the old people?”