The gafir was accustomed to the strange habits of the white people, but, although almost drunken with slumber, he peered closely and furtively at the driver.
"Thank you so much," said Damaris gravely, with her hand against a mark upon her cheek caused by the pressure of an amulet made of a scarab-shaped emerald in a dull gold setting, and which Hugh Carden Ali wore night and day above his heart. "Is there anything else as wonderful to see as the Temple?"
"Deir el-Bahari."
The man spoke curtly and made no further comment; not for him was it to offer himself as guide.
"Ah! yes, of course—but people go to it in crowds, and one has to follow behind a guide in a procession."
"One is not obliged to return with the crowd, nor to listen to the dragoman, who knows nothing about the incense-trees of Punt which were planted upon the terrace to perfume the air under the light of the full moon, in the days of Queen Hatshepu."
With apparent abruptness she ended the conversation:
"I share my godmother's great faith in you. Good night."
She put out her hand as he salaamed with hands to brow and lips and heart. Perhaps that was why he failed to see it.
Or was it, perhaps, that he still felt the softness of her against his heart?