Reïs Hassan looks doubtful; but takes refuge as usual in “Inshallah!” (“God willing”). Talhamy talks of landing a sailor to run forward and order donkeys. Meanwhile the Philæ creeps lazily on; the sun declines unseen behind a filmy veil; and those two shadowy towers, rising higher and ever higher on the horizon, look gray, and ghostly, and far distant still. Suddenly the trackers stop, look back, shout to those on board, and begin drawing the boat to shore. Reïs Hassan points joyously to a white streak breaking across the smooth surface of the river about half a mile behind. The Fostât’s sailors are already swarming aloft--the Bagstones’ trackers are making for home--our own men are preparing to fling in the rope and jump on board as the Philæ nears the bank. For the capricious wind, that always springs up when we don’t want it, is coming! And now the Fostât, being hindmost, flings out her big sail and catches the first puff; the Bagstones’ turn comes next; the Philæ shakes her wings free and shoots ahead; and in fewer minutes than it takes to tell, we are all three scudding along before a glorious breeze. The great towers that showed so far away half an hour ago are now close at hand. There are palm-woods about their feet, and clustered huts, from the midst of which they tower up against the murky sky magnificently. Soon they are passed and left behind, and the gray twilight takes them and we see them no more. Then night comes on, cold and starless; yet not too dark for going as fast as wind and canvas will carry us. And now, with that irrepressible instinct of rivalry that flesh--especially flesh on the Nile--is heir to, we quickly turn our good going into a trial of speed. It is no longer a mere business-like devotion to the matter in hand. It is a contest for glory. It is the Philæ against the Fostât, and the Bagstones against both. In plain English, it is a race. The two leading dahabeeyahs are pretty equally matched. The Philæ is larger than the Fostât; but the Fostât has a bigger mainsail. On the other hand, the Fostât is an iron boat; whereas the Philæ, being wooden-built, is easier to pole off a sand-bank, and lighter in hand. The Bagstones carries a capital mainsail and can go as fast as either upon occasion. Meanwhile, the race is one of perpetually varying fortunes. Now the Fostât shoots ahead; now the Philæ. We pass and repass; take the wind out of one another’s sails; economize every curve; hoist every stitch of canvas, and, having identified ourselves with our boats, are as eager to win as if a great prize depended on it. Under these circumstances, to dine is difficult--to go to bed superfluous--to sleep impossible. As to mooring for the night, it is not to be thought of for a moment. Having begun the contest, we can no more help going than the wind can help blowing; and our crew are as keen about winning as ourselves.