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Updated: June 20, 2025
But" those voices of the singing sailors were beginning almost to obsess her "are all the boatmen Nubians then?" "Nao!" he replied, with a sudden cockney accent. "But these that are singing?" "I say they are Noobian peoples, my lady. They are Mahmoud Baroudi's Noobian peoples." "Baroudi's sailors!" said Mrs. Armine. She sat up straight in her chair. "But Mahmoud Baroudi isn't here, at Luxor?"
All the toilet arrangements were perfect, and each room had a recess in which was a large enamelled bath. "That is my bedroom, madame," said Baroudi, pointing to a door which he did not open. "It is the largest on the boat. And here is my room for sitting alone.
Baroudi was as totally devoid of ordinary scruples as the average well-bred Englishman is full of them. He had, no doubt, a code of his own to guide his conduct towards his co-religionists, but this code seemed wholly inoperative when he was brought into relation with those of another race and faith. And Mrs. Armine was a woman, and therefore, in his eyes, on a lower plane than himself.
He was a link between her and Baroudi, yet he looked a fatal figure, and she could never rid herself of the idea that some harm, or threatening of great danger, would come to her through him.
"This afternoon he was the cosmopolitan millionaire. To-night he sinks down into his native East." "Who is he?" "Mahmoud Baroudi." "Mahmoud Baroudi!" repeated Isaacson, slowly and softly. An old man who had crept in began to sing in a high and quavering voice a song of the smokers of hashish, accompanying himself upon an instrument of tortoise and goat-skin.
"The whole vessel is lighted up," he added. "Is she? Perhaps Baroudi has come up the river." "Looks like it," said Isaacson. He crossed, then uncrossed his legs. Never before had he felt himself to be a coward. He knew what he must do. He knew he would do it before Nigel and he went into the room behind them. Yet he could not force himself to begin. He thought, "When I've smoked out this cigar."
"Who who ?" he whispered, with lips that had gone white. "Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. The box fell from his hands to the terrace, scattering the aids to her beauty, which he had always hated. She turned, pulled her cloak closely round her, and hurried to the bank of the Nile. "Ibrahim! Ibrahim!" "My lady!" He came, striding up the bank. "Take my hand! Help me! Quickly!"
The girl replied in a voice that sounded ironic, and suddenly began to laugh. At the same moment Baroudi came into the tent. The girl called out to him, pointed at Mrs. Armine, and went on laughing. He smiled at her, and answered. "What are you saying to her?" said Mrs. Armine, fiercely. "How dare you speak to her about me? How dare you discuss me with her?" "P'f! She is a child.
For, since the long day in the mountains, her old ambition seemed to have died, to have been slain, and, with its death, had suddenly grown more fierce within her the governing love, or governing greed, for material things-for money, jewels, lovely bibelots, for all that is summed up in the one word luxe. And Baroudi was immensely rich, and would grow continually richer.
The small felucca of the Loulia was alongside. Hamza took her by the arm. Although his hand was small and delicate, it seemed to her then a thing of iron that could not be resisted. She got into the boat. Where was she going to be taken? It occurred to her now that perhaps Baroudi had some plan, that he did not choose to keep her on board, that he had a house at Luxor, or The Villa Nuit d'Or!
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