I had to spend two hot days on board while my baggage was disembarked. Whoever has been to India knows well enough what is the furnace temperature of the Red Sea, and how, south of the tropic of Cancer, it becomes insufferable. The thermometer stood at midday at about 95° Fahrenheit, and the air was like a vapour-bath. The sea water, a few degrees cooler, afforded us, nevertheless, some refreshment, and we did our utmost to enjoy it at all hours of the day. Still there was something very enervating and depressing about this amphibious life. Had the heat and sun-glare been less overpowering, we might have truly enjoyed the splashing and sport in the bright green floods which spread over the shallows where coral banks ranged themselves below, and where the eye could detect a thousand marvels. Like terraces filled with the choicest plants, the sloping beds of coral descended with variegated festoons into the purple shades of the deep; strange forms were witnessed in these living groves, and conspicuous among others was the “bride of the fish,” which is celebrated in the Arabian fishing-song, “O bride, lovely bride of the fish, come to me.” Ever and anon on my voyage, which was to me as an Odyssey, did I delight to catch fragments of this song, as it was dreamily hummed by the man at the stern during the hot midday hour when the crew had sunk into slumber, and while, noiselessly and spirit-like, our vessel glided through the emerald floods. The enchantment, as of a fairy tale, of these waters with their myriad living forms of every tint and shape, defies all power of description.