We had chosen a time when the light was doubtful in order that we might
avoid the tourists, but as we approach the funeral dwelling of Sultan
Barkuk, the assassin, we see, issuing from it, a whole band, some twenty
in a line, who emerge from the darkness of the abandoned walls, each
trotting on his little donkey and each followed by the inevitable
Bedouin driver, who taps with his stick upon the rump of the beast. They
are returning to Cairo, their visit ended, and exchange in a loud voice,
from one ass to another, more or less inept impressions in various
European languages. . . . And look! There is even amongst them the
almost proverbial belated dame who, for private reasons of her own,
follows at a respectable distance behind. She is a little mature
perhaps, so far as can be judged in the moonlight, but nevertheless
still sympathetic to her driver, who, with both hands, supports her from
behind on her saddle, with a touching solicitude that is peculiar to
the country. Ah! these little donkeys of Egypt, so observant, so
philosophical and sly, why cannot they write their memoirs! What a
number of droll things they must have seen at night in the outskirts of
Cairo!

This good lady evidently belongs to that extensive category of hardy
explorers who, despite their high respectability at home, do not
hesitate, once they are landed on the banks of the Nile, to supplement
their treatment by the sun and the dry winds with a little of the
"Bedouin cure."



CHAPTER VIII