"What do you think of the English ladies? eh, Richarn?
Are they not lovely?"
"Wah Illahi!" exclaimed the astonished Richarn, "they are beautiful!
What hair! They are not like the negro savages, who work other people's
hair into their own heads; theirs is all real - all their own - how
beautiful!"
"Yes, Richarn," I replied, "ALL THEIR OWN!" This was my first
introduction to the "chignon."
We arrived at Cairo, and I established Richarn and his wife in a
comfortable situation as private servants to Mr. Zech, the master of
Sheppard's Hotel. The character I gave him was one that I trust has done
him service. He had shown an extraordinary amount of moral courage in
totally reforming from his original habit of drinking. I left my old
servant with a heart too full to say good-by, a warm squeeze of his
rough but honest black hand, and the whistle of the train sounded - we
were off!
I had left Richarn, and none remained of my people. The past appeared
like a dream; the rushing sound of the train renewed ideas of
civilization. Had I really come from the Nile Sources? It was no dream.
A witness sat before me - a face still young, but bronzed like an Arab by
years of exposure to a burning sun, haggard and worn with toil and
sickness, and shaded with cares happily now past, the devoted companion
of my pilgrimage, to whom I owed success and life - my wife.
