was now reposing in a compendious form in his pocket. When the Scot and the Antiquary overtook their friend he was sitting on a mud wall outside a little and very dirty village. Mutual explanations followed. The Collector was too good-tempered to be unpleasant, but he allowed himself to point out that the blame did not lie with him, adding, "for my part, I knew that when the Antiquary got fairly to work on the Table, there would be some such mistake." And with this not wholly pointless sarcasm, the matter dropped. But our morning was all gone, and after a few slow miles we stopped for lunch. It was already two o'clock, and we were nearing Farshoot. Everywhere the Collector's melancholy at finding no anteekas worth speaking of at Arábat was deepened by the miserable appearance of the people. There were plenty of sugar canes, but nothing to eat. The children who gathered round our luncheon basket were literally skeletons. Our stock of small silver was quite exhausted before we reached the town. At last, our minds full of distress, we reached Farshoot, the afternoon turning into a hot, dusty evening. In the town all was misery. It was fair day, and the bazaars and market place were full, but full of famine-stricken faces, shrunk limbs, and gaunt forms. We rode quickly through the clouds of dust and flies, merely pausing to change some small pieces of money. Even this we could scarcely do, so poverty-stricken were the market people. In the distance, between us and the river, was, we knew, a great sugar factory of the Khedive's. Thither, through the sunset, we pointed our steps. But it fell dark before we reached it, though the chimney was in sight, and after some consultation we agreed to pitch our tents in a palm grove and rest for the night. It took long to get everything in order, and our rest was disturbed by the cry of the mourners in the neighbouring village-a cry which hardly ceased as we went on, except in the open desert, till we were actually at the end of our journey. There would be no object in my repeating the stories of famine which were retailed to us by the men who visited us that night. The little land left to the villagers from the cane fields had been so inundated that the doorra crop had been destroyed. All last year's corn had gone to Effendina for taxes. The beans would soon be ready, and those who survived might hope for the best. But next Nile might be as high as the last, and if so, who could survive another year? With these sad forebodings in our ears we lay down to sleep. BASKING." CHAPTER XV. THE FAMINE. The Morning Scene-A Starving Family-A Deserted Child-How- OUR route next morning lay along the river bank. Opposite, behind Ekhmeem, the ancient Chemmis, was the line of mountains, blue and beautiful through the morning air. We might have enjoyed the scenery, the shining water, the tall white sails, the green fields on the right, the clearing mist, the glorious light, but for the wretchedness all about us among the people. At one place, where we had to pause to pass a deep shadoof-cutting, a woman with two children was begging from the inhabitants of a little hut. They appeared to refuse her: and she came out on the bank, weeping. When the Arab refuses alms to his fellow Arab, things must have gone very bad with himself. This scene showed that not only were the woman and the children starving, but also the people who kept within their house. The two children were naked, and looked like old women. The skin hung in brown folds about their skeleton frames. Their eyes were sunk. The younger was carried on her mother's shoulder, but the elder walked feebly and stooping in front. With all this want they did not follow us, and, indeed, we had some difficulty to make them come forward to receive our alms. A little further we passed round a village. It was one of those of which I have already spoken, which are protected from the inundation by a moat and bank. The moat was now nearly dry, and as we went across the villagers were repairing the bank. About half way up it was a child lying alone, apparently asleep, with a cloud of flies buzzing round it. We stopped and asked about it. The child had been deserted, the people said: its mother had cast it down on the bank, and run away to get food. We offered them some money to take charge of it, and the Scot climbed the slope to put a piece of silver into the poor little creature's hand as it lay. Here again we had an indirect proof of the terrible state of poverty to which the people were reduced. The Arabs are so fond of children that such a scene will appear What incredible to any one who knows them. became of that child? We have often wondered. This was by far the worst day of our ride. About eleven we went through Ho, or How,-the name is locally pronounced Hö-o, in two syllables—and there it seemed as if the famine was at its greatest height. The Collector went into the town while the others kept in the outskirts. He overtook them with a face full of horror. The streets were full of starving people. They were picking up grains on the dunghills. They were fighting over old bones. They were chewing straw. In the market-place a man was lying under the wall, actually dying, and a woman, with loud lamentations, was pouring water over him. Near him another appeared to be already dead. The others had seen similar misery in the outskirts: naked children whose bones were starting through the skin: mothers carrying skeleton babies, themselves little better: old men and old women lying hopeless and helpless to die in the sunshine. "What a pity," remarked one of our party bitterly, "the Khedive cannot tax the sunshine." For the story we heard was everywhere the same. It was not the inundation which caused the famine. Similar inundations had not caused famines, for the people had always a little store, some of money, some of corn. At the worst, neighbours could help each other. But this year their stores had all been seized for taxes. The curious mud bins which are built for holding |