after hour Hatatcha’s low voice continued to instruct her grandson. Occasionally she would question him, to be sure that he understood, and several names she made him repeat many times, until they were indelibly impressed upon his memory.
At last she took the forefinger of his right hand and with it made a mystic sign upon her naked breast, making him repeat after her a dreadful oath to obey her instructions in every way and keep forever certain grave secrets.
Then she fell back and lay still.
Daybreak came in time, and a streak of light crept under the arch and touched the group in the corner.
The aged hag, filthy and unkempt, lay dead upon her couch of rushes, and beside her sat Kāra, his face immobile, his eyes staring fixedly at the opposite wall.
He was thinking.
CHAPTER III
THE DRAGOMAN
Nephthys came from her mother’s hut in the cool of early morning, bearing on her head an earthen jar. She was bound for the river, to carry from thence their daily supply of water.
As she passed Hatatcha’s dwelling she found Kāra standing in the archway, and he drew the girl toward him and kissed her lips. They were cold and unresponsive.
“How is your grandmother?” she asked, indifferently.
“She is with Isis,” he answered, holding her arm with one hand and feeling her brown cheek with the other.
The girl shuddered and glanced askance at the arch.
“Let me go,” she said.
Instead, he folded an arm around her and kissed her again, while she put up a hand to steady the jar from falling.
Then Kāra experienced a sudden surprise. His body spun around like a top and was hurled with force against the opposite wall. At the same time the jar toppled from Nephthys’ head and was shattered on the ground. The girl staggered back and leaned against the stones of the arch, staring at the path ahead.
In front of her stood a young man most gorgeously arrayed. A red fez, such as many wear in Egypt, was perched jauntily upon his head. Covering his breast was a blue satin jacket elaborately braided with silver, and where it parted in front a vest of white silk showed, with a line of bright silver buttons. His knee breeches were of saffron pongee, wide and flowing, like those of a Turk, and from there down to his yellow slippers his legs were bare. Add a voluminous sash of crimson silk and a flowing mantle suspended from his shoulders, and you can guess the splendor of the man’s attire.
His person was short and inclined to stoutness, and his face, with its carefully curled black mustache, was remarkably regular and handsome. His eyes were nearly as large and black as Kāra’s, and at the present moment they flashed fire, while an angry frown distorted his brow. He stood with his legs spread apart and his hands pressed upon his hips, regarding the girl with a glance of sullen fury.
Nephthys returned the look with one of stupor. Her face was quite as expressionless as before, but her nostrils dilated a little, as if she were afraid.
“Tadros!” she muttered.
Kāra lifted his tall form from the ground and stood scowling upon his assailant.
“The cursed dragoman again!” he exclaimed, with bitterness.
Tadros turned his head slightly to direct a look of scorn upon his enemy. Then he regarded the girl again.
“What of your promise to me, woman?” he demanded, sternly. “Are you the plaything of every dirty Egyptian when my back is turned?”
Nephthys had no reply. She looked at the pattern of the silver braid upon his jacket and followed carefully its curves and twists. The blue satin was the color of lapis lazuli, she thought, and the costume must have cost a lot of money – perhaps as much as fifty piasters.
“Your mother shall answer for this perfidy,” continued the dragoman, in Arabic. “If I am to be toyed with and befooled, I will have my betrothal money back – every piaster of it!”
The girl’s eyes dropped to her feet and examined the fragments of the jar.
“It is broken!” she said, with a wailing accent.
“Bah! there are more at Keneh,” he returned, kicking away a bit of the earthenware. “It will cost old Sĕra more than the jar if she does not rule you better. Come!”
He waved his hand pompously and strutted past her to the door of her mother’s hut, paying no heed to the evil looks of Kāra, who still stood motionless in his place.
The girl followed, meek and obedient.
They entered a square room lighted by two holes in the mud walls. The furniture was rude and scanty, and the beds were rushes from the Nile. A black goat that had a white spot over its left eye stood ruminating with its head out of one of the holes.
A little withered woman with an erect form and a pleasant face met Tadros, the dragoman, just within the doorway.
“Welcome!” she said, crossing her arms upon her breast and bending her head until she was nearly double.
“Peace to this house,” returned Tadros, carelessly, and threw himself upon a bench.
Sĕra squatted upon the earthen floor and looked with pride and satisfaction at the dragoman’s costume.
“You are a great man, my Tadros,” she said, “and you must be getting rich. We are honored by your splendid presence. Gaze upon your affianced bride, O Dragoman! Is she not getting fat and soft in flesh, and fit to grace your most select harem?”
“I must talk to you about Nephthys,” said the dragoman, lighting a cigarette. “She is too free with these dirty Fedahs, and especially with that beast Kāra.”
His tone had grown even and composed by this time, and his face had lost its look of anger.
“What would you have?” asked old Sĕra, deprecatingly. “The girl must carry water and help me with the work until you take her away with you. I cannot keep her secluded like a princess. And there are no men in Fedah except old Nikko, who is blind, and young Kāra, who is not.”
“It is Kāra who annoys me,” said Tadros, puffing his cigarette lazily.
“Kāra! But he is the royal one. You know that well enough. The descendant of the ancient kings has certain liberties, and therefore takes others, and he merely indulges in a kiss now and then. I have watched him, and it does not worry me.”
“The royal one!” repeated the dragoman scornfully. “How do we know old Hatatcha’s tales are true?”
“They must be true,” returned Sĕra, positively. “My mother served Hatatcha’s mother, because she was the daughter of kings. For generations the ancestors of Kāra have been revered by those who were Egyptians, although their throne is a dream of the past, and they are condemned to live in poverty. Be reasonable, my Tadros! Your own blood is as pure as ours, even though it is not royal. What! shall we Egyptians forget our dignity and rub skins with the English dogs or the pagan Arabs?”
“The Arabs are not so bad,” said Tadros, thoughtfully. “They have many
