THE STRUGGLE OF THE NILE. 465 chaos, the double line of palms appeared in the north-east. The river came from the east, out of the black mountain wilderness. The valley is very narrow, and cultivation is only possible in the coves of soil embayed among the hills. I came down on one of them — a meadow of halfeh, back of the little village of Koyee — and stopped an hour to rest the camels. A caravan of merchants, bound for Kordofan and Dar-Fur, had just encamped there, to rest during the hot hours, according to their custom. Among them were some hadji, or pilgrims from Dar-Fur, on their way home from Mecca, and a negro from Fazogl, who had belonged to. a European, and had lived in Naples. He was now free and going home, wearing a shabby Frank dress, but without money, as he came at once to beg of me. A Nubian woman came from the huts near at hand, bringing me a large gourd of buttermilk, which I shared with the camel-drivers.

I set the camels in motion again, and we entered a short akaba, in order to cross a broad stony ridge, which advanced quite to the river's edge. The path was up and down the sides of steep hollows, over a terrible waste of stones. Down these hollows, which shelved towards the river, we saw the palms of the opposite bank — a single dark-green line, backed by another wilderness, equally savage. Through all this country of Mahass the Desert makes a desperate effort to cut off the glorious old River. It flings rocks into its bed, squeezes him between iron mountains, compels him to turn and twist through a hundred labyrinths to find a passage, but he pushes and winds his way through all, and carries his bright waters in triumph down to his beloved Egypt. There was, to me, something exceedingly touching in watching his course through 20*