each one, at the hour of death, turned his thoughts to these stones and sands, in the ardent hope that he might be able to sleep near the remains of his god.  And when the place was becoming crowded with sleepers, those who could obtain no place there conceived the idea of having humble obelisks planted on the holy ground, which at least should tell their names; or even recommended that their mummies might be there for some weeks, even if they were afterwards removed.  And thus, funeral processions passed to and fro without ceasing through the cornfields that separate the Nile from the desert.  Abydos!  In the sad human dream dominated by the thought of dissolution, Abydos preceded by many centuries the Valley of Jehosophat of the Hebrews, the cemeteries around Mecca of the Moslems, and the holy tombs beneath our oldest cathedrals! . . .  Abydos!  It behoves us to walk here pensively and silently out of respect for all those thousands of souls who formerly turned towards this place, with outstretched hands, in the hour of death.

The first great temple—­that which King Seti raised to the mysterious Prince of the Other World, who in those days was called Osiris—­is quite close—­a distance of little more than 200 yards in the glare of the desert.  We come upon it suddenly, so that it almost startles us, for nothing warns us of its proximity.  The sand from which it has been exhumed, and which buried it for 2000 years, still rises almost to its roof.  Through an iron gate, guarded by two tall Bedouin guards in black robes, we plunge at once into the shadow of enormous stones.  We are in the house of the god, in a forest of heavy Osiridean columns, surrounded by a world of people in high coiffures, carved in bas-relief on the pillars and walls—­people who seem to be signalling one to another and exchanging amongst themselves mysterious signs, silently and for ever.

But what is this noise in the sanctuary?  It seems to be full of people.  There, sure enough, beyond a second row of columns, is quite a little crowd talking loudly in English.  I fancy that I can hear the clinking of glasses and the tapping of knives and forks.

Oh! poor, poor temple, to what strange uses are you come. . . .  This excess of grotesqueness in profanation is more insulting surely than to be sacked by barbarians!  Behold a table set for some thirty guests, and the guests themselves—­of both sexes—­merry and lighthearted, belong to that special type of humanity which patronises Thomas Cook & Son (Egypt Ltd.).  They wear cork helmets, and the classic green spectacles; drink whisky and soda, and eat voraciously sandwiches and other viands out of greasy paper, which now litters the floor.  And the women!  Heavens! what scarecrows they are!  And this kind of thing, so the black-robed Bedouin guards inform us, is repeated every day so long as the season lasts.  A luncheon in the temple of Osiris is part of the programme of pleasure trips.  Each day at noon a new band arrives, on heedless and unfortunate donkeys.  The tables and the crockery remain, of course, in the old temple!