It was so near the dawn of day when we parted, that we again found the sun
sinking westward when we rejoined each other. The smile with which she met
me,—so frankly cordial,—might have been taken for the greeting of a long
mellowed friendship, did not the blush and the castdown eyelid, that
followed, give symptoms of a feeling newer and less calm. For myself,
lightened as I was, in some degree, by the confession which I had made, I
was yet too conscious of the new aspect thus given to our intercourse, to
feel altogether unembarrassed at the prospect of returning to the theme.
It was, therefore, willingly we both suffered our attention to be
diverted, by the variety of objects that presented themselves on the way,
from a subject that both equally trembled to approach.
The river was now full of life and motion. Every moment we met with boats
descending the current, so independent of aid from sail or oar, that the
sailors sat idly upon the deck as they shot along, singing or playing upon
their double‐reeded pipes. Of these boats, the greater number came loaded
with merchandise from Coptos,—some with those large emeralds, from the
mine in the desert, whose colours, it is said, are brightest at the full
of the moon, and some laden with frankincense from the acacia‐groves near
the Red Sea. On the decks of others, that had been to the Golden Mountains
beyond Syene, were heaped blocks and fragments of that sweet‐smelling
wood, which the Green Nile of Nubia washes down in the season of the
floods.
Our companions up the stream were far less numerous. Occasionally a boat,
returning lightened from the fair of last night, with those high sails
that catch every breeze from over the hills, shot past us;—while, now and
then, we overtook one of those barges full of bees, that at this season of
the year, are sent to colonise the gardens of the south, and take
advantage of the first flowers after the inundation has passed away.
By these various objects we were, for a short time, enabled to divert the
conversation from lighting and settling upon the one subject, round which
it continually hovered. But the effort, as might be expected, was not long
successful. As evening advanced, the whole scene became more solitary. We
less frequently ventured to look upon each other, and our intervals of
silence grew more long.
It was near sunset, when, in passing a small temple on the shore, whose
porticoes were now full of the evening light, we saw, issuing from a
thicket of acanthus near it, a train of young maids linked together in the
dance by lotus‐stems, held at arms’ length between them. Their tresses
were also wreathed with this emblem of the season, and such a profusion of
the white flowers were twisted round their waists and arms, that they
might have been taken, as they gracefully bounded along the bank, for
Nymphs of the Nile, risen freshly from their gardens under the wave.
After looking for a few moments at this sacred dance, the maid turned away
her eyes, with a look of pain, as if the remembrances it recalled were of
no welcome nature. This momentary retrospect, this glimpse into the past,
seemed to offer a sort of clue to the secret for which I panted;—and,
gradually and delicately as my impatience would allow, I availed myself of
it. Her frankness, however, saved me the embarrassment of much
questioning. She even seemed to feel that the confidence I sought was due
to me, and beyond the natural hesitation of maidenly modesty, not a shade
of reserve or evasion appeared.
To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, the simple story which
she now related to me, would be like endeavouring to note down some strain
of unpremeditated music, with those fugitive graces, those felicities of
the moment, which no art can restore, as they first met the ear. From a
feeling, too, of humility, she had omitted in her narrative some
particulars relating to herself, which I afterwards learned;—while others,
not less important, she but slightly passed over, from a fear of wounding
the prejudices of her heathen hearer.
I shall, therefore, give her story, as the outline which she, herself,
sketched was afterwards filled up by a pious and venerable hand,—far, far
more worthy than mine of being associated with the memory of such purity.