And was there anywhere a more industrious nation of laborers, had there ever been, before them, a thriftier or a more skilful race?  When he looked back on the fate and deeds of nations, on the remotest horizon where the thread of history was scarcely perceptible, that same gigantic Sphinx was there—­the first and earliest monument of human joy in creative art—­those Pyramids which still proudly stood in undiminished and inaccessible majesty beyond the Nile, beyond the ruined capital of his forefathers, at the foot of the Libyan range.  He was the son of the men who had raised these imperishable works, and in his veins perchance there still might flow a drop of the blood of those Pharaohs who had sought eternal rest in these vast tombs, and whose greater progeny, had overrun half the world with their armies, and had exacted tribute and submission.  He, who had often felt flattered at being praised for the purity of his Greek—­pure not merely for his time:  an age of bastard tongues—­and for the engaging Hellenism of his person, here and now had an impulse of pride of his Egyptian origin.  He drew a deep breath, as he gazed at the sinking sun; it seemed to lend intentional significance to the rich beauty of his home as its magical glory transmuted the fields, the stream, and the palm-groves, the roofs of the city, and even the barren desert-range and the Pyramids to burning gold.  It was fast going to rest behind the Libyan chain.  The bare, colorless limestone sparkled like translucent crystal; the glowing sphere looked as though it were melting into the very heart of the mountains behind which it was vanishing, while its rays, shooting upwards like millions of gold threads, bound his native valley to heaven—­the dwelling of the Divine Power who had blessed it above all other lands.

To free this beautiful spot of earth and its children from their oppressors—­to restore to them the might and greatness which had once been theirs—­to snatch down the crescent from the tents and buildings which lay below him and plant the cross which from his infancy he had held sacred—­to lead enthusiastic troops of Egyptians against the Moslems—­to quell their arrogance and drive them back to the East like Sesostris, the hero of history and legend—­this was a task worthy of the grandson of Menas, of the son of George the great and just Mukaukas.

Paula would not oppose such an enterprise; his excited imagination pictured her indeed as a second Zenobia by his side, ready for any great achievement, fit to aid him and to rule.

Fully possessed by this dream of the future, he had long ceased to gaze at the glories of the sunset and was sitting with eyes fixed on the ground.  Suddenly his soaring visions were interrupted by men’s voices coming up from the street just below the terrace.  He looked over and perceived at its foot about a score of Egyptian laborers; free men, with no degrading tokens of slavery, making their way along, evidently against their will and yet in sullen obedience, with no thought of resistance or evasion, though only a single Arab held them under control.