CAIRO.

Men and women, or I should rather say ladies and gentlemen, used long ago, when they gave signs of weakness about the chest, to be sent to the south of Devonshire; after that, Madeira came into fashion; but now they are all despatched to Grand Cairo.  Cairo has grown to be so near home, that it will soon cease to be beneficial, and then the only air capable of revigorating the English lungs will be that of Labuan or Jeddo.

But at the present moment, Grand Cairo has the vogue.  Now it had so happened during the last winter, and especially in the trying month of March, that Arthur Wilkinson’s voice had become weak; and he had a suspicious cough, and was occasionally feverish, and perspired o’nights; and on these accounts the Sir Omicron of the Hurst Staple district ordered him off to Grand Cairo.

This order was given in October, with reference to the coming winter, and in the latter end of November, Arthur Wilkinson started for the East.  Two articles he had first to seek ­the one being a necessary, and the other a luxury ­and both he found.  These were a curate and a companion.  The Reverend Gabriel Gilliflower was his curate; and of him we need only hope that he prospered well, and lived happily under the somewhat stern surveillance of his clerical superior, Mrs. Wilkinson.  His companion was George Bertram.

About the end of November they started through France, and got on board the P. and O. Company’s vessel at Marseilles.  It is possible that there may be young ladies so ignorant as not to know that the P. and O. is the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, and therefore the matter is now explained.  In France they did not stop long enough to do more than observe how much better the railway carriages are there than in England, how much dearer the hotels are in Paris than in London, and how much worse they are in Marseilles than in any other known town in the world.

Nor need much be said of their journey thence to Alexandria.  Of Malta, I should like to write a book, and may perhaps do so some day; but I shall hardly have time to discuss its sunlight, and fortifications, and hospitality, and old magnificence, in the fag-end of a third volume; so we will pass on to Alexandria.

Oh, Alexandria! mother of sciences! once the favoured seat of the earth’s learning!  Oh, Alexandria! beloved by the kings!  It is of no use.  No man who has seen the Alexandria of the present day can keep a seat on a high horse when he speaks of that most detestable of cities.  How may it fitly be described?  May we not say that it has all the filth of the East, without any of that picturesque beauty with which the East abounds; and that it has also the eternal, grasping, solemn love of lucre which pervades our western marts, but wholly unredeemed by the society, the science, and civilization of the West?

Alexandria is fast becoming a European city; but its Europeans are from Greece and the Levant!  “Auri sacra fames!” is the motto of modern Greece.  Of Alexandria it should be, “Auri fames sacrissima!” Poor Arabs! poor Turks! giving way on all sides to wretches so much viler than yourselves, what a destiny is before you!

“What income,” I asked a resident in Alexandria, “what income should an Englishman have to live here comfortably?” “To live here comfortably, you should say ten thousand a year, and then let him cut his throat first!” Such was my friend’s reply.

But God is good, and Alexandria will become a place less detestable than at present.  Fate and circumstances must Anglicize it in spite of the huge French consulate, in spite of legions of greedy Greeks; in spite even of sand, musquitos, bugs, and dirt, of winds from India, and of thieves from Cyprus.

The P. and O. Company will yet be the lords of Egypt; either that or some other company or set of men banded together to make Egypt a highway.  It is one stage on our road to the East; and the time will soon come when of all the stages it will neither be the slowest nor the least comfortable.  The railway from Alexandria to Suez is now all opened within ten miles; will be all opened before these pages can be printed.  This railway belongs to the viceroy of Egypt; but his passengers are the Englishmen of India, and his paymaster is an English company.

But, for all that, I do not recommend any of my friends to make a long sojourn at Alexandria.

Bertram and Wilkinson did not do so, but passed on speedily to Cairo.  They went to the Pharos and to Pompey’s Pillar; inspected Cleopatra’s Needle, and the newly excavated so-called Greek church; watched the high spirits of one set of passengers going out to India ­young men free of all encumbrances, and pretty girls full of life’s brightest hopes ­and watched also the morose, discontented faces of another set returning home, burdened with babies and tawny-coloured nurses, with silver rings in their toes ­and then they went off to Cairo.

There is no romance now, gentle readers, in this journey from Alexandria to Cairo; nor was there much when it was taken by our two friends.  Men now go by railway, and then they went by the canal boat.  It is very much like English travelling, with this exception, that men dismount from their seats, and cross the Nile in a ferry-boat, and that they pay five shillings for their luncheon instead of sixpence.  This ferry does, perhaps, afford some remote chance of adventure, as was found the other day, when a carriage was allowed to run down the bank, in which was sitting a native prince, the heir to the pasha’s throne.  On that occasion the adventure was important, and the prince was drowned.  But even this opportunity for incident will soon disappear; for Mr. Brunel, or Mr. Stephenson, or Mr. Locke, or some other British engineering celebrity, is building a railway bridge over the Nile, and then the modern traveller’s heart will be contented, for he will be able to sleep all the way from Alexandria to Cairo.

Mr. Shepheard’s hotel at Cairo is to an Englishman the centre of Egypt, and there our two friends stopped.  And certainly our countrymen have made this spot more English than England itself.  If ever John Bull reigned triumphant anywhere; if he ever shows his nature plainly marked by rough plenty, coarseness, and good intention, he does so at Shepheard’s hotel.  If there be anywhere a genuine, old-fashioned John Bull landlord now living, the landlord of the hotel at Cairo is the man.  So much for the strange new faces and outlandish characters which one meets with in one’s travels.

I will not trouble my readers by a journey up the Nile; nor will I even take them up a pyramid.  For do not fitting books for such purposes abound at Mr. Mudie’s?  Wilkinson and Bertram made both the large tour and the little one in proper style.  They got as least as far as Thebes, and slept a night under the shade of King Cheops.

One little episode on their road from Cairo to the Pyramids, I will tell.  They had joined a party of which the conducting spirit was a missionary clergyman, who had been living in the country for some years, and therefore knew its ways.  No better conducting spirit for such a journey could have been found; for he joined economy to enterprise, and was intent that everything should be seen, and that everything should be seen cheaply.

Old Cairo is a village some three miles from the city, higher up the river; and here, close to the Nilometer, by which the golden increase of the river is measured, tourists going to the Pyramids are ferried over the river.  The tourists are ferried over, as also are the donkeys on which the tourists ride.  Now here arose a great financial question.  The reis or master of the ferry-boat to which the clerical guide applied was a mighty man, some six feet high, graced with a turban, as Arabs are; erect in his bearing, with bold eye, and fine, free, supple limbs ­a noble reis for that Nile ferry-boat.  But, noble as he was, he wanted too many piastres ­twopence-halfpenny a head too much for each donkey, with its rider.

And then there arose a great hubbub.  The ordinary hubbub at this spot is worse than the worst confusion of any other Babel.  For the traffic over the Nile is great, and for every man, woman, and child, for every horse and every ass, for every bundle of grass, for every cock and for every hen, a din of twenty tongues is put in motion, and a perpetual fury rages, as the fury of a hurricane.  But the hubbub about the missionary’s piastres rose higher than all the other hubbubs.  Indeed, those who were quarrelling before about their own affairs came and stood round in a huge circle, anxious to know how the noble reis and his clerical opponent would ultimately settle this stiff financial difficulty.

In half an hour neither side would yield one point; but then at last the Egyptian began to show that, noble as he looked, he was made of stuff compressible.  He gradually gave up, para by para, till he allowed donkeys, men, and women to clamber over the sides of his boat at the exact price named by him of the black coat.  Never did the church have a more perfect success.

But the battle was not yet over.  No sooner was the vessel pushed off into the stream, than the noble reis declared that necessity compelled him to demand the number of piastres originally named by him.  He regretted it, but he assured the clergyman that he had no other alternative.

And now how did it behove an ardent missionary to act in such a contest with a subtle Egyptian?  How should the eloquence of the church prevail over this Eastern Mammon?  It did prevail very signally.  The soldier of peace, scorning further argument in words with such a crafty reis, mindful of the lessons of his youth, raised his right hand, and with one blow between the eyes, laid the Arab captain prostrate on his own deck.

“There,” said he, turning to Wilkinson, “that is what we call a pastoral visitation in this country.  We can do nothing without it.”

The poor reis picked himself up, and picked up also his turban, which had been knocked off, and said not a word more about the piastres.  All the crew worked with double diligence at their oars, and the party, as they disembarked from the boat, were treated with especial deference.  Even the donkeys were respected.  In Egypt the donkeys of a man are respected, ay, and even his donkey-boys, when he shows himself able and willing to knock down all those around him.

A great man there, a native, killed his cook one morning in a rage; and a dragoman, learned in languages, thus told the story to an Englishman: ­“De sahib, him vera respecble man.  Him kill him cook, Solyman, this morning.  Oh, de sahib particklar respecble!” After all, it may be questioned whether this be not a truer criterion of respectability than that other one of keeping a gig.

Oh, those pyramid guides! foul, false, cowardly, bullying thieves!  A man who goes to Cairo must see the Pyramids.  Convention, and the laws of society as arranged on that point, of course require it.  But let no man, and, above all, no woman, assume that the excursion will be in any way pleasurable.  I have promised that I will not describe such a visit, but I must enter a loud, a screeching protest against the Arab brutes ­the schieks being the very worst of the brutes ­who have these monuments in their hands.  Their numbers, the filthiness of their dress ­or one might almost say no dress ­their stench, their obscene indecency, their clattering noise, their rapacity, exercised without a moment’s intercession; their abuse, as in this wise:  “Very bad English-man; dam bad; dam, dam, dam!  Him want to take all him money to the grave; but no, no, no!  Devil hab him, and money too!” This, be it remembered, from a ferocious, almost blackened Arab, with his face within an inch of your own.  And then their flattery, as in this wise:  “Good English-man ­very good!” ­and then a tawny hand pats your face, and your back, and the calves of your leg ­“Him gib poor Arab one shilling for himself ­yes, yes, yes! and then Arab no let him tumble down and break all him legs ­yes, yes; break all him legs.”  And then the patting goes on again.  These things, I say, put together, make a visit to the Pyramids no delightful recreation.  My advice to my countrymen who are so unfortunate as to visit them is this:  Let the ladies remain below ­not that they ever will do so, if the gentlemen who are with them ascend ­and let the men go armed with stout sticks, and mercilessly belabour any Arab who attempts either to bully or to wheedle.

Let every Englishman remember this also, that the ascent is not difficult, though so much noise is made about the difficulty as naturally to make a man think that it is so.  And let this also be remembered, that nothing is to be gained by entering the pyramid except dirt, noise, stench, vermin, abuse, and want of air.  Nothing is to be seen there ­nothing to be heard.  A man may sprain his ankle, and certainly will knock his head.  He will encounter no other delights but these.

But he certainly will come out a wiser man than he went in.  He will then be wise enough to know how wretched a place is the interior of a pyramid ­an amount of wisdom with which no teaching of mine will imbue him.

Bertram and Wilkinson were sitting beneath the pyramid, with their faces toward the desert, enjoying the cool night air, when they first began to speak of Adela Gauntlet.  Hitherto Arthur had hardly mentioned her name.  They had spoken much of his mother, much of the house at Hurst Staple, and much also of Lady Harcourt, of whose separation from her husband they were of course aware; but Arthur had been shy of mentioning Adela’s name.

They had been speaking of Mrs. Wilkinson, and the disagreeable position in which the vicar found himself in his own house; when, after sitting silent for a moment, he said, “After all, George, I sometimes think that it would have been better for me to have married.”

“Of course it would ­or rather, I should say, will be better.  It is what you will do when you return.”

“I don’t know about my health now.”

“Your health will be right enough after this winter.  I don’t see much the matter with it.”

“I am better, certainly;” and then there was another pause.

“Arthur,” continued Bertram, “I only wish that I had open before me the same chance in life that you have ­the same chance of happiness.”

“Do not despair, George.  A short time cures all our wounds.”

“Yes; a short time does cure them all ­and then comes chaos.”

“I meant a short time in this world.”

“Well, all things are possible; but I do not understand how mine are to be cured.  They have come too clearly from my own folly.”

“From such folly,” said Arthur, “as always impedes the working of human prudence.”

“Do you remember, Arthur, my coming to you the morning after the degrees came down ­when you were so low in spirits because you had broken down ­when I was so full of triumph?”

“I remember the morning well; but I do not remember any triumph on your part.”

“Ah!  I was triumphant ­triumphant in my innermost heart.  I thought then that all the world must give way to me, because I had taken a double-first.  And now ­I have given way before all the world.  What have I done with all the jewels of my youth?  Thrown them before swine!”

“Come, George; you are hardly seven-and-twenty yet.”

“No, hardly; and I have no profession, no fortune, no pursuit, and no purpose.  I am here, sitting on the broken stone of an old tomb, merely because it is as well for me to be here as elsewhere.  I have made myself to be one as to whose whereabouts no man need make inquiry ­and no woman.  If that black, one-eyed brute, whom I thrashed a-top of the pyramid, had stuck his knife in me, who would have been the worse for it?  You, perhaps ­for six weeks or so.”

“You know there are many would have wept for you.”

“I know but one.  She would have wept, while it would be ten times better that she should rejoice.  Yes, she would weep; for I have marred her happiness as I have marred my own.  But who cares for me, of whose care I can be proud?  Who is anxious for me, whom I can dare to thank, whom I may dare to love?”

“Do we not love you at Hurst Staple?”

“I do not know.  But I know this, that you ought to be ashamed of me.  I think Adela Gauntlet is my friend; that is, if in our pig-headed country a modest girl may love a man who is neither her brother nor her lover.”

“I am sure she is,” said Arthur; and then there was another pause.  “Do you know,” he continued, “I once thought ­”

“Thought what?”

“That you were fond of Adela.”

“So I am, heartily fond of her.”

“But I mean more than that.”

“You once thought that I would have married her if I could.  That is what you mean.”

“Yes,” said Wilkinson, blushing to his eyes.  But it did not matter; for no one could see him.

“Well, I will make a clean breast of it, Arthur.  Men can talk here, sitting in the desert, who would be as mute as death at home in England.  Yes; there was once a moment, once one moment, in which I would have married her ­a moment in which I flattered myself that I could forget Caroline Waddington.  Ah! if I could tell you how Adela behaved!”

“How did she behave?  Tell me ­what did she say?” said Arthur, with almost feverish anxiety.

“She bade me remember, that those who dare to love must dare to suffer.  She told me that the wounded stag, ’that from the hunter’s aim has ta’en a hurt,’ must endure to live, ’left and abandoned of his velvet friends.’ ­And she told me true.  I have not all her courage; but I will take a lesson from her, and learn to suffer ­quietly, without a word, if that be possible.”

“Then you did propose to her?”

“No; hardly that.  I cannot tell what I said myself; but ’twas thus she answered me.”

“But what do you mean by taking a lesson from her?  Has she any such suffering?”

“Nay!  You may ask her.  I did not.”

“But you said so just now; at any rate you left me to infer it.  Is there any one whom Adela Gauntlet really loves?”

George Bertram did not answer the question at once.  He had plighted his word to her as her friend that he would keep her secret; and then, moreover, that secret had become known to him by mere guesses.  He had no right, by any law, to say it as a fact that Adela Gauntlet was not heart-whole.  But still he thought that he would say so.  Why should he not do something towards making these two people happy?

“Do you believe that Adela is really in love with any one?” repeated Arthur.

“If I tell you that, will you tell me this ­Are you in love with any one ­you yourself?”

The young clergyman was again ruby red up to his forehead.  He could dare to talk about Adela, but hardly about himself.

“I in love!” he said at last.  “You know that I have been obliged to keep out of that kind of thing.  Circumstanced as I have been, I could not marry.”

“But that does not keep a man from falling in love.”

“Does not it?” said Arthur, rather innocently.

“That has not preserved me ­nor, I presume, has it preserved you.  Come, Arthur, be honest; if a man with thirty-nine articles round his neck can be honest.  Out with the truth at once.  Do you love Adela, or do you not?”

But the truth would not come out so easily.  Whether it was the thirty-nine articles, or the natural modesty of the man’s disposition, I will not say; but he did not find himself at the moment able to give a downright answer to this downright question.  He would have been well pleased that Bertram should know the whole truth; but the task of telling it went against the grain with him.

“If you do, and do not tell her so,” continued Bertram, when he found that he got no immediate reply, “I shall think you .  But no; a man must be his own judge in such matters, and of all men I am the least fit to be a judge of others.  But I would that it might be so, for both your sakes.”

“Why, you say yourself that she likes some one else.”

“I have never said so.  I have said nothing like it.  There; when you get home, do you yourself ask her whom she loves.  But remember this ­if it should chance that she should say that it is you, you must be prepared to bear the burden, whatever may be urged to the contrary at the vicarage.  And now we will retire to roost in this hole of ours.”

Arthur had as yet made no reply to Bertram’s question; but as he crept along the base of the pyramid, feeling his steps among the sand and loose stones, he did manage to say a word or two of the truth.

“God bless you, George.  I do love her ­very dearly.”  And then the two cousins understood each other.

It has been said that Alexandria has nothing of an Eastern town but its filth.  This cannot at all be said of Cairo.  It may be doubted whether Bagdad itself is more absolutely oriental in its appurtenances.  When once the Englishman has removed himself five hundred yards from Shepheard’s hotel, he begins to feel that he is really in the East.  Within that circle, although it contains one of the numerous huge buildings appropriated to the viceroy’s own purposes, he is still in Great Britain.  The donkey-boys curse in English, instead of Arabic; the men you meet sauntering about, though they do wear red caps, have cheeks as red; and the road is broad and macadamized, and Britannic.  But anywhere beyond that circle Lewis might begin to paint.

Cairo is a beautiful old city; so old in the realities of age that it is crumbling into dust on every side.  From time to time the houses are patched up, but only patched; and, except on the Britannic soil above alluded to, no new houses are built.  It is full of romance, of picturesque oriental wonders, of strange sights, strange noises, and strange smells.  When one is well in the town, every little narrow lane, every turn ­and the turns are incessant ­every mosque and every shop creates fresh surprise.  But I cannot allow myself to write a description of Cairo.

How the dervishes there spun and shook, going through their holy exercises with admirable perseverance, that I must tell.  This occurred towards the latter end of the winter, when Wilkinson and Bertram had nearly completed their sojourn in Cairo.  Not but what the dervishes had roared out their monotonous prayer to Allah, duly every Friday, at 1 P.M., with as much precision as a service in one of your own cathedrals; but our friends had put the thing off, as hardly being of much interest, and at last went there when they had only one Friday left for the performance.

I believe that, as a rule, a Mahomedan hates a Christian:  regarding him merely as Christian, he certainly does so.  Had any tidings of confirmed success on the part of the rebels in India reached the furthermost parts of the Turkish empire, no Christian life would have been safe there.  The horrid outrage perpetrated at Jaffa, and the massacre at Jeddah, sufficiently show us what we might have expected.  In Syria no Christian is admitted within a mosque, for his foot and touch are considered to carry pollution.

But in Egypt we have caused ourselves to be better respected:  we thrash the Arabs and pay them, and therefore they are very glad to see us anywhere.  And even the dervishes welcome us to their most sacred rites, with excellent coffee, and a loan of rush-bottomed chairs.  Now, when it is remembered that a Mahomedan never uses a chair, it must be confessed that this is very civil.  Moreover, let it be said to their immortal praise, that the dervishes of Cairo never ask for backsheish.  They are the only people in the country that do not.

So Bertram and Wilkinson had their coffee with sundry other travelling Britons who were there; and then each, with his chair in his hand went into the dervishes’ hall.  This was a large, lofty, round room, the roof of which was in the shape of a cupola; on one side, that which pointed towards Mecca, and therefore nearly due east, there was an empty throne, or tribune, in which the head of the college, or dean of the chapter of dervishes, located himself on his haunches.  He was a handsome, powerful man, of about forty, with a fine black beard, dressed in a flowing gown, and covered by a flat-topped black cap.

By degrees, and slowly, in came the college of the dervishes, and seated themselves as their dean was seated; but they sat on the floor in a circle, which spread away from the tribune, getting larger and larger in its dimensions as fresh dervishes came in.  There was not much attention to regularity in their arrival, for some appeared barely in time for the closing scene.

The commencement was tame enough.  Still seated, they shouted out a short prayer to Allah a certain number of times.  The number was said to be ninety-nine.  But they did not say the whole prayer at once, though it consisted of only three words.  They took the first word ninety-nine times; and then the second; and then the third.  The only sound to be recognized was that of Allah; but the deep guttural tone in which this was groaned out by all the voices together, made even that anything but a distinct word.

And so this was completed, the circle getting ever larger and larger.  And it was remarked that men came in as dervishes who belonged to various ordinary pursuits and trades; there were soldiers in the circle, and, apparently, common labourers.  Indeed, any one may join; though I presume he would do so with some danger were it discovered that he were not a Mahomedan.

Those who specially belonged to the college had peculiar gowns and caps, and herded together on one side of the circle; and it appeared to our friends, that throughout the entertainment they were by far the least enthusiastic of the performers.

When this round of groaning had been completed ­and it occupied probably half an hour ­a young lad, perhaps of seventeen years, very handsome, and handsomely dressed in a puce-coloured cloak, or rather petticoat, with a purple hat on his head, in shape like an inverted flower-pot, slipped forth from near the tribune into the middle of the circle, and began to twirl.  After about five or six minutes, two other younger boys, somewhat similarly dressed, did the same, and twirled also; so that there were three twirling together.

But the twirling of the elder boy was by far the more graceful.  Let any young lady put out both her hands, so as to bring the one to the level of her waist, and the other with the crown of her head, and then go round and round, as nearly as possible on the same spot; let her do this so that no raising of either foot shall ever be visible; and let her continue it for fifteen minutes, without any variation in the attitude of her arms, or any sign of fatigue, ­and then she may go in for a twirling dervish.  It is absurd to suppose that any male creature in England could perform the feat.  During this twirling, a little black boy marked the time, by beating with two sticks on a rude gong.

This dance was kept up at first for fifteen minutes.  Then there was another short spell of howling; then another dance, or twirl; and then the real game began.

The circle had now become so large as to occupy the greater part of the hall, and was especially swelled by sundry new arrivals at this moment.  In particular, there came one swarthy, tall, wretched-looking creature, with wild eyes, wan face, and black hair of extraordinary length, who took up his position, standing immediately opposite to the tribune.  Other new comers also stood near him, all of whom were remarkable for the length of their hair.  Some of them had it tied up behind like women, and now proceeded to unloose it.

But at this period considerable toilet preparations were made for the coming work.  All those in the circle who had not come in from the college with gowns and caps, and one or two even of them, deliberately took off their outer clothing, and tied it up in bundles.  These bundles they removed to various corners, so that each might again find his own clothes.  One or two put on calico dressing-gowns, which appeared to have been placed ready for the purpose; and among these was the cadaverous man of the black hair.

And then they all stood up, the dean standing also before his tribune, and a deep-toned murmur went round the circle.  This also was the word Allah, as was duly explained to Bertram by his dragoman; but without such explanation it would have been impossible to detect that any word was pronounced.  Indeed, the sound was of such nature as to make it altogether doubtful from whence it came.  It was like no human voice, or amalgamation of voices; but appeared as though it came from the very bowels of the earth.  At first it was exceedingly low, but it increased gradually, till at last one might have fancied that the legions of Lucifer were groaning within the very bowels of Pandemonium.

And also, by slow degrees, a motion was seen to pervade the circle.  The men, instead of standing fixedly on their legs, leaned over, first to the right and then to the left, all swaying backwards and forwards together in the same direction, so that both sound and motion were as though they came from one compact body.

And then, as the groan became louder, so did the motion become more violent, till the whole body heaved backwards and forwards with the regularity of a pendulum and the voice of a steam-engine.  As the excitement became strong, the head of the dervishes walked along the inner circle, exciting those to more violence who already seemed the most violent.  This he did, standing for a few minutes before each such man, bowing his own head rapidly and groaning deeply; and as he did so, the man before whom he stood would groan and swing himself with terrible energy.  And the men with the long hair were especially selected.

And by degrees the lateral motion was abandoned, and the dervishes bowed their heads forwards instead of sideways.  No one who has not seen the operation can conceive what men may achieve in the way of bowing and groaning.  They bowed till they swept the floor with their long hair, bending themselves double, and after each motion bringing themselves up again to an erect posture.  And the dean went backwards and forwards from one to another, urging them on.

By this time the sight was terrible to behold.  The perspiration streamed down them, the sounds came forth as though their very hearts were bursting, their faces were hidden by their dishevelled locks, whatever clothes they wore were reeking wet.  But still they flung themselves about, the motion becoming faster and faster; and still the sounds came forth as though from the very depths of Tartarus.  And still the venerable dean went backwards and forwards slowly before them, urging them on, and still urging them on.

But at last, nature with the greater number of them had made her last effort; the dean retired to his tribune, and the circle was broken up.  But those men with the long hair still persevered.  It appeared, both to Bertram and Wilkinson, that with them the effort was now involuntary.  They were carried on by an ecstatic frenzy; either that or they were the best of actors.  The circle had broken up, the dervishes were lying listlessly along the walls, panting with heat, and nearly lifeless with their exertions; but some four, remaining with their feet fixed in the old place, still bowed and still howled.  “They will die,” said Bertram.

“Will they not be stopped?” said Wilkinson to their dragoman.

“Five minutes, five minutes!” said the dragoman.  “Look at him ­look at him with the black hair!” And they did look.

Three of them had now fallen, and the one remained still at his task.  He swept the ground with his hair, absolutely striking it with his head; and the sounds came forth from him loudly, wildly, with broken gasps, with terrible exertion, as though each would be his last, and yet they did nothing to repress him.

At last it seemed as though the power of fully raising his head had left him, and also that of lowering it to the ground.  But still he made as it were a quarter-circle.  His hands were clutched behind his back, and with this singular motion, and in this singular attitude, he began to move his feet; and still groaning and half bowing, he made a shuffling progress across the hall.

The dervishes themselves appeared to take no notice of him.  The dean stood tranquil under his tribune; those who had recovered from their exertions were dressing themselves, the others lay about collecting their breath.  But the eyes of every stranger were on the still moving black-haired devotee.

On he went, still howling and still swinging his head, right towards the wall of the temple.  His pace was not fast, but it seemed as though he would inevitably knock his own brains out by the motion of his own head; and yet nobody stopped him.

“He’ll kill himself,” said Wilkinson.

“No, no, no!” said the dragoman; “him no kill ­him head berry hard.”

Bertram rushed forward as though to stay the infuriate fanatic, but one or two of the dervishes who stood around gently prevented him, without speaking a word.

And then the finale came.  Crack he went against the wall, rebounded off, and went at it again, and then again.  They were no mock blows, but serious, heavy raps, as from a small battering-ram.  But yet both Bertram and Wilkinson were able to observe that he did not strike the wall, as he would naturally have done had there been no precaution.  Had he struck it with his head in motion, as was intended to be believed, the blow would have come upon his forehead and temples, and must probably have killed him; but instead of this, just as he approached the wall, he butted at it like a ram, and saved his forehead at the expense of his pole.  It may probably be surmised, therefore, that he knew what he was about.

After these three raps, the man stood, still doubled up, but looking as though he were staggered.  And then he went again with his head towards the wall.  But the dean, satisfied with what had been done, now interposed, and this best of dervishes was gently laid on his back upon the floor, while his long matted hair was drawn from off his face.  As he so lay, the sight was not agreeable to Christian eyes, whatever a true Mahomedan might think of it.

’Twas thus the dervishes practised their religious rites at Cairo.  “I wonder how much that black fellow gets paid every Friday,” said Bertram, as he mounted his donkey; “it ought to be something very handsome.”