tion>L. Frank Baum
The Last Egyptian
A Romance of the Nile
Published by Good Press, 2021
EAN 4057664605696
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. WHERE THE DESERT MEETS THE NILE.
CHAPTER IV. THE TREASURE OF AHTKA-RĀ.
CHAPTER VI. KĀRA BATHES IN THE NILE.
CHAPTER VII. A STEP TOWARD THE GOAL.
CHAPTER VIII. HIS GRANDMOTHER’S MUMMY.
CHAPTER X. LORD CROMER’S RECEPTION.
CHAPTER XI. SETTING THE SNARES.
CHAPTER XIII. THE TALISMAN OF AHTKA-RĀ.
CHAPTER XIV. ROGUES ANCIENT AND MODERN.
CHAPTER XV. WINSTON BEY IS INDIGNANT.
CHAPTER XVII. ANETH SURRENDERS.
CHAPTER XXI. LOTUS-EATERS AND CROCODILES.
CHAPTER XXII. THE DRAGOMAN’S INSPIRATION.
CHAPTER XXIII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHEIK DEMURS.
CHAPTER XXV. THE BRONZE BOLTS.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DRAGOMAN WINS.
CHAPTER I.
WHERE THE DESERT MEETS THE NILE.
The sun fell hot upon the bosom of the Nile and clung there, vibrant, hesitating, yet aggressive, as if baffled in its desire to penetrate beneath the river’s lurid surface. For the Nile defies the sun, and relegates him to his own broad domain, wherein his power is undisputed.
On either side the broad stream humanity shrank from Ra’s seething disc. The shaduf workers had abandoned their skin-covered buckets and bamboo poles to seek shelter from the heat beneath a straggling tree or a straw mat elevated on stalks of ripe sugar-cane. The boats of the fishermen lay in little coves, where the sails were spread as awnings to shade their crews. The fellaheen laborers had all retired to their clay huts to sleep through this fiercest period of the afternoon heat.
On the Nile, however, a small steam dahabeah puffed lazily along, stemming with its slow motion the sweep of the mighty river toward the sea. The Arab stoker, naked and sweating, stood as far as possible from the little boiler and watched it with a look of absolute repulsion upon his swarthy face. The engineer, also an Arab, lay stretched upon the deck half asleep, but with both ears alert to catch any sound that might denote the fact that the straining, rickety engine was failing to perform its full duty. Back of the tiny cabin sat the dusky steersman, as naked and inert as his fellows, while under the deck awning reclined the one white man of the party, a young Englishman clothed in khaki knickerbockers and a white silk shirt well open at the throat.
There were no tourists in Egypt at this season. If you find a white man on the Nile in April, he is either attached to some exploration party engaged in excavations or a government employee from Cairo, Assyut or Luxor, bent upon an urgent mission.
The dahabeah was not a government boat, though, so that our Englishman was more likely to be an explorer than an official. It was evident he was no stranger to tropical climes, if we judged by his sun-browned skin and the quiet resignation to existing conditions with which he puffed his black briar and relaxed his muscular frame. He did not sleep, but lay with his head upon a low wicker rest that enabled him to sweep the banks of the Nile with his keen blue eyes.
The three Arabs regarded their master from time to time with stealthy glances, in which wonder was mingled with a certain respect. The foreigner was a fool to travel during the heat of the day; no doubt of that at all. The native knows when to work and when to sleep—a lesson the European never learns. Yet this was no casual adventurer exploiting his folly, but a man who had lived among them for years, who spoke Arabic fluently and could even cipher those hieroglyphics of the dead ages
