The pale brown of the stone became almost yellow in the
sunshine. From the river, hidden from me stole up the songs of the
boatmen. Nearer at hand I heard pigeons cooing, cooing in the sun, as
if almost too glad, and seeking to manifest their gladness. Behind me,
through the columns, peeped some houses of the village: the white home
of Ibrahim Ayyad, the perfect dragoman, grandson of Mustapha Aga, who
entertained me years ago, and whose house stood actually within the
precincts of the temple; houses of other fortunate dwellers in Luxor
whose names I do not know. For the village of Luxor crowds boldly about
the temple, and the children play in the dust almost at the foot of
the obelisks and statues. High on a brown hump of earth a buffalo stood
alone, languishing serenely in the sun, gazing at me through the columns
with light eyes that were full of a sort of folly of contentment. Some
goats tripped by, brown against the brown stone--the dark brown earth of
the native houses. Intimate life was here, striking the note of coziness
of Luxor. Here was none of the sadness and the majesty of Denderah.
Grand are the ruins of Luxor, noble is the line of columns that boldly
fronts the Nile, but Time has given them naked to the air and to the
sun, to children and to animals. Instead of bats, the pigeons fly about
them. There is no dreadful darkness in their sanctuaries. Before them
the life of the river, behind them the life of the village flows and
stirs.
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