The fat, sleek dragoman had dismounted, and stood waiting in his
petticoats and his cover-coat for the stragglers to gather round him.

"This temple, ladies and gentlemen," he cried, with the air of an
auctioneer who is about to sell it to the highest bidder, "very fine
example from the eighteenth dynasty. Here is the cartouche of Thotmes
the Third," he pointed up with his donkey-whip at the rude, but deep,
hieroglyphics upon the wall above him. "He live sixteen hundred years
before Christ, and this is made to remember his victorious exhibition
into Mesopotamia. Here we have his history from the time that he was
with his mother, until he return with captives tied to his chariot.
In this you see him crowned with Lower Egypt, and with Upper Egypt
offering up sacrifice in honour of his victory to the God Ammon-ra.
Here he bring his captives before him, and he cut off each his right
hand. In this corner you see little pile--all right hands."

"My sakes, I shouldn't have liked to be here in those days," said Miss
Adams.

"Why, there's nothing altered," remarked Cecil Brown. "The East is
still the East. I've no doubt that within a hundred miles, or perhaps a
good deal less, from where you stand--"

"Shut up!" whispered the Colonel, and the party shuffled on down the
line of the wall with their faces up and their big hats thrown
backwards. The sun behind them struck the old grey masonry with a
brassy glare, and carried on to it the strange black shadows of the
tourists, mixing them up with the grim, high-nosed, square-shouldered
warriors, and the grotesque, rigid deities who lined it. The broad
shadow of the Reverend John Stuart, of Birmingham, smudged out both the