"Of course, I know that, my gentlemans."
Hassan's voice sounded full of an almost contemptuous pity.
"Well, I know the people on board of her. They—one of them is a friend of mine. That'll do. You can go to the lower deck."
Isaacson began to pace up and down. He pushed back the deck chairs to the rail in order to have more room for movement. Although the heat was becoming intense, and despite the marvellous dryness of the atmosphere, perspiration broke out on his forehead and cheeks, he could not cease from walking. Once he thought with amazement of his long and almost complete inertia since he had left Luxor. How could he have remained sunk in a chair for hours and hours, staring at the moving water and at the monotonous banks of the Nile? Close to the Fatma two shadûf men were singing and bending, singing and bending. And had the shadûf songs lulled him? Had they pushed him towards his dream? Now, as he listened to the brown men singing, he heard nothing but violence in their voices. And in their rhythmical movements only violence was expressed to him. When lunch came, he ate it hastily, without noticing what he was eating. Soon after he had finished, coffee was brought, not by the waiter, but by Hassan, who could no longer suppress another demonstration of curiosity.
"No message him comin', my nice gentlemans."
He stood gazing at his master.
"No?" said Isaacson, with a forced carelessness.
"All the men bin sleepin', the Reis him ready to start. We stop by the Loulia, and we take the message ourselfs."
"No. I'm not going to start at present. It's too hot."
Hassan showed his long teeth, which looked like the teeth of an animal. Isaacson knew a protest was coming.