The top of another pylon; the slender peak of an obelisk; a colonnade of giant pillars half-buried in the soil; the white houses of the English, American and Prussian consuls, each with its flagstaff and ensign; a steep slope of sandy shore; a background of mud walls and pigeon-towers; a foreground of native boats and gayly painted dahabeeyahs lying at anchor--such, as we sweep by, is our first panoramic view of this famous village. A group of turbaned officials sitting in the shade of an arched doorway rise and salute us as we pass. The assembled dahabeeyahs dozing with folded sails, like sea-birds asleep, are roused to spasmodic activity. Flags are lowered; guns are fired; all Luxor is startled from its midday siesta. Then, before the smoke has had time to clear off, up comes the Bagstones in gallant form; whereupon the dahabeeyahs blaze away again as before. And now there is a rush of donkeys and donkey boys, beggars, guides and antiquity-dealers, to the shore--the children screaming for backshîsh; the dealers exhibiting strings of imitation scarabs; the donkey boys vociferating the names and praises of their beasts; all alike regarding us as their lawful prey. “Hi, lady! Yankee-Doodle donkey; try Yankee Doodle!” cries one. “Far-away Moses!” yells another. “Good donkey--fast donkey--best donkey in Luxor!” “This Prince of Wales donkey!” shouts a third, hauling forward a decrepit little weak-kneed, moth-eaten looking animal, about as good to ride upon as a towel-horse. “First-rate donkey! splendid donkey! God save the queen! Hurrah!” But neither donkeys nor scarabs are of any importance in our eyes just now, compared with the letters we hope to find awaiting us on shore. No sooner, therefore, are the boats made fast than we are all off, some to the British consulate and some to the poste restante, from both of which we return rich and happy.