“The following day we continued our course up the Nile, passing by a number of villages and palm-groves, and towards evening I resumed my favourite seat on the upper deck, to see the beautiful Egyptian sunset; the Missionary Müller was by me, and interested me much by descriptions of the Soudan. Hassan was quite in the stern of the boat, reciting or chanting in a low voice. I asked Müller if he knew what the young man was repeating, but he could not catch the words, and said, “It is doubtless some old Arab legend.” I felt a great desire to hear a recitation of this kind, and I inquired of the missionary whether he could prevail upon Hassan to repeat it to us.

“He got up and made the request. I could see that some hesitation and difficulties arose; but they were soon overcome, and Müller returned, bringing with him Hassan, who sat down in his old place between me and the rais. Müller said to me—

“‘Hassan desires the young lady to be informed that he is not a ràwi

“I told him it would give me great pleasure to hear it, so Hassan commenced.

“Although I could not understand a word, it moved me deeply. After the first few lines his faculties seemed all wrapped up in the tale: now the voice was deep and guttural, then it grew soft and sad; then came some scene of anger or strife, and his eyes flashed fire; then came a plaintive tone, which dropping almost to a whisper, suddenly stopped. I felt sure that the hero or the heroine was dead, and the tears actually stood in Müller’s eyes, and the old rais at the helm uttered several sighs, or rather groans, in succession.

“On expressing my vexation that I could not understand the recital, Müller kindly said that he would make me a translation of the tale on the morrow, correcting it from Hassan’s lips.

“Here is the translation of the Arab legend made by Müller:—

“Rabîah.

“Rabîah was feeble, slowly recovering from severe wounds. Who has not heard of Rabîah?—the Lion of the Nejd, whose eyes were like burning coals, whose form was like the at’l (oak), whose voice was as a tempest; before his lance the brave fell bathed in blood, and the timid fled like herds of antelopes.

“When Rabîah came forth to battle and shouted his war-cry, the maidens of the Otèbah wrung their hands, saying, ‘Alas for my brother!’ ‘Alas for my beloved!’ and the mother, pressing her babe to her breast, cried, ‘Oh, my child, wilt thou see thy father to-morrow?’