Under a burning sky we touch for an hour or two at Gertássee and then push on for Dabôd. The limestone quarries at Gertássee are full of votive sculptures and inscriptions; and the little ruin--a mere cluster of graceful columns supporting a fragment of cornice--stands high on the brink of a cliff overhanging the river. Take it as you will, from above or below, looking north or looking south, it makes a charming sketch. If transported to Dabôd on that magic carpet of the fairy tale, one would take it for a ruin on the “beached margent” of some placid lake in dreamland. It lies between two bends of the river, which here flows wide, showing no outlet and seeming to be girdled by mountains and palm-groves. The temple is small and uninteresting; begun, like Dakkeh, by an Ethiopian king and finished by Ptolemies and Cæsars. The one curious thing about it is a secret cell, most cunningly devised. Adjoining the sanctuary is a dark side-chamber; in the floor of the side-chamber is a pit, once paved over; in one corner of the pit is a man-hole opening into a narrow passage; and in the narrow passage are steps leading up to a secret chamber constructed in the thickness of the wall. We saw other secret chambers in other temples,[173] but not one in which the old approaches were so perfectly preserved. From Dabôd to Philæ is but ten miles; and we are bound for Torrigûr, which is two miles nearer. Now Torrigûr is that same village at the foot of the beautiful sand-drift, near which we moored on our way up the river; and here we are to stay two days, followed by at least a week at Philæ. No sooner, therefore, have we reached Torrigûr than Reïs Hassan and three sailors start for Assûan to buy flour. Old Ali, Riskalli and Mûsa, whose homes lie in the villages round about, get leave of absence for a week; and we find ourselves reduced all at once to a crew of five, with only Khaleefeh in command. Five, however, are as good as fifty when the dahabeeyah lies moored and there is nothing to do; and our five, having succeeded in buying some flabby Nubian cakes and green lentils, are now quite happy. So the painter pitches his tent on the top of the sand-drift; and the writer sketches the ruined convent opposite; and L---- and the little lady write no end of letters; and the idle man, with Mehemet Ali for a retriever, shoots quail, and everybody is satisfied. Hapless idle man! hapless but homicidal. If he had been content to shoot only quail, and had not taken to shooting babies! What possessed him to do it? Not--not let us hope--an ill-directed ambition foiled of crocodiles! He went serene and smiling, with his gun under his arm, and Mehemet Ali in his wake. Who so light of heart as that idle man? Who so light of heel as that turbaned retriever? We heard our sportsman popping away presently in the barley. It was a pleasant sound, for we knew his aim was true. “Every shot,” said we, “means a bird.” We little dreamed that one of those shots meant a baby.