"Hamza—is he your servant?" she asked, with an apparent irrelevance, that was not really irrelevance.
"He is a donkey-boy at Luxor."
"Yes. He used not to be my donkey-boy. He has only been my donkey-boy since—since my husband has gone. They say in Luxor he is really a dervish."
"They say many things in Luxor."
"They call him the praying donkey-boy. Has he too been to Mecca?"
His face slightly changed. The eyes narrowed, the sloping brows came down. But after a short pause he answered:
"He went to Mecca with me. I paid for him to go."
She did not know much of Mohammedans, but she knew enough to be aware that Hamza was not likely to forget that benefit. And Baroudi had chosen Hamza to be her donkey-boy. She felt as if the hands of Islâm were laid upon her.
"Hamza must be very grateful to you!" she said, slowly.
Baroudi made no reply. She looked away over the wild geraniums, down the alley between the trees to the hollow in the river-bank, and she saw a lateen sail glide by, and vanish behind the trees, going towards the south. In a moment another came, then a third, a fourth. The fourth was orange-coloured. For an instant she followed its course beyond the leaves of the orange-trees. How many boats were going southwards!