As she spoke, suddenly out from the darkness of the pool into the ring of light cast by the lamp which Bakhita bore, that fairy boat came gliding. The gust of wind blowing down the western sepulchres beyond the pool, which extinguished its lamp, had also caught its sail and brought it back, half filled with water shipped in turning; brought it back swiftly, but sailing straight to where Mea knelt upon the edge of the pool. She saw it, and with a little cry of joy, bent herself over the water, and stretching out her rounded arms, caught the boat just before it sank, and hugged it to her breast.
“Put the thing down,” said Bakhita. “You don’t believe in it, and it is wet and will spoil your robe. Nay, the Bey’s foot is mine, not yours. I brought it from the Wells.”
Then they began to quarrel over this poor mummied relic of which Rupert thought that he had seen the last many a day before, while he took an opportunity to beat his retreat. Bakhita and her ancient spells were, as usual, interesting, though when they involved a lost fragment of himself they became somewhat gruesome. But in such things he had no belief whatsoever; they only attracted him as historical, or rather as spiritual survivals. What moved him about the matter was Mea’s part in it, revealing, as it did, that her interest in his future had in no way abated. Indeed, he felt that it would be long before he was able to forget the touching sight of this wayward and beautiful girl, this desert-bred daughter of kings, snatching the sinking boat and its grizzly burden from the water and pressing them to her breast as though they were a living child. Meanwhile, the accident that he had seen it did not make this farewell less difficult.
When at length he reached the house—for amongst the fallen stones of the temple his progress with a crutch was slow—Rupert sat down upon its steps, feeling sure that Mea would wish to see him, and that it would be well to get that parting over. Presently the mongrel at his side began to bark, and next minute he saw her walking slowly up the path towards him, her cloak open and the breast of her robe still wet where she had pressed the dripping boat against it. He struggled from the step to meet her.
“Sit, Rupert Bey,” she said; “sit. Why trouble you to rise for me?”
“I cannot sit while you stand,” he answered.
“Then I sit also, on the other side of the dog. He look like the god on the wall, does he not, what you call him—Anubis, brother of Osiris? No, don’t growl at me, Anubis; I no hurt your master, you nasty little god of the dead.”
“Where have you been, and why is your dress wet?” asked Rupert.
“Ask Anubis here, he wise, knows as much as his master. I been to the burying-place and lean over holy water to look if I grow more ugly than usual.”
“Stuff!” answered Rupert.