of soul, and a longing to stretch one's hand back down the centuries to
pluck their meaning from the past.

Under the sand, the granite, the marble, buried deep in the pyramids or
merely covered by the earth of shallow graves, there must surely be
many instruments of music wrought in gold or silver, studded in jewels,
or cut out of humble wood; many strings still unbroken, and near them
many whitened bones of dusky hands which, for all we know, at odd
moments of day or night set those strings a-thrumming, or lift the reed
pipes to ghostly lips.

Who knows but that the British Museum at night, rid at last of those
who gape at Egypt's dishonoured dead, may not be filled with snatches
of music from throat or hand of those unfortunates, priest, priestess,
fair woman and honoured man, dug out and laid upon a slab of grass for
the education of the revellers of a wet Bank Holiday, or those others
from Northern climes, who bid their snuffling, sticky progeny to "coom
oop, lad, an' look at t' stuffed un!"

And on this night of which I write, music was caught up, and carried
hither and hither upon the breeze which clittered the leaves of the
palms, and softly moved the flowing robes of Hahmed the Arab, who,
perfectly motionless, stood in the ink-black shadow cast by the
bougainvillaea, which trailed its purple masses over the walls of the
house, shining faintly pink under the silver moon.

At the man's feet lay three camels, superb beasts. One red brown and
one-humped, packed with a seemingly huge load which in reality it
hardly felt, and two Bactrian or two-humped, pacing dromedaries of
Dhalul, one of deepest black and therefore most rare, with black saddle