DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.4393#0173
THEBES TO ASSUAN. 155
and when we reach yonder headland they will have
dwindled to seven. It is plain to see, however, that as the
distance decreases between ourselves and Assiian, so also it
decreases between ourselves and the Fostat. Rei's Hassan
knows it. I see him measuring the space by his eye. I
see the frown settling on his brow. He is calculating how
much the Fostat gains in every quarter of an hour, and
how many quarters we are yet distant from the goal. For
no Arab sailor counts by miles. He counts by time and
by the reaches in the river; and these may be taken at a
rough average of three miles each. When, therefore, our
captain, in reply to an oft-repeated question, says we have
yet two bends to make, we know that we are about six
miles from our destination.
Six miles—and the Fostat creeping closer every minute!
Just now we were all talking eagerly; but as the end draws
near, even the sailors are silent. Rei's Hassan stands
motionless at his post, on the lookout for shallows. The
words "Shamal—Yemin " ("left—right"), delivered in a
short, sharp tone, are the only sounds he utters. The
steersman, all eye and ear, obeys him like his hand. The
sailors squat in their places, quiet and alert as cats.
And now it is no longer six miles, but five—no longer
five, but four. The Fostat, thanks to her bigger sail, has
well-higb overtaken us; and the Bagstones is not more than
a hundred yards behind the Fostat. On we go, however,
past palm-woods of nobler growth than any we have yet
seen ; past forlorn homeward-bound dahabeeyahs lying-to
against the wind ; past native boats, and riverside huts,
and clouds of driving sand ; till the corner is turned, and
the last reach gained, and the minarets of Assiian are seen
as through a shifting fog in the distance. The ruined
tower crowning yonder promontory stands over against the
town ; and those black specks midway in the bed of the
river are the first outlying rocks of the cataract. The
channel there is hemmed in between reefs and sand-banks,
and to steer it is difficult in even the calmest weather.
Still our canvas strains to the wind, and the Phils rushes
on full-tilt, like a racer at the hurdles.
Every eye now is turned upon Rei's Hassan; and Rei's
Hassan stands rigid, like a man of stone. The rocks are
close ahead—so close that we can see the breakers pouring
over them and the swirling eddies between. Our way
and when we reach yonder headland they will have
dwindled to seven. It is plain to see, however, that as the
distance decreases between ourselves and Assiian, so also it
decreases between ourselves and the Fostat. Rei's Hassan
knows it. I see him measuring the space by his eye. I
see the frown settling on his brow. He is calculating how
much the Fostat gains in every quarter of an hour, and
how many quarters we are yet distant from the goal. For
no Arab sailor counts by miles. He counts by time and
by the reaches in the river; and these may be taken at a
rough average of three miles each. When, therefore, our
captain, in reply to an oft-repeated question, says we have
yet two bends to make, we know that we are about six
miles from our destination.
Six miles—and the Fostat creeping closer every minute!
Just now we were all talking eagerly; but as the end draws
near, even the sailors are silent. Rei's Hassan stands
motionless at his post, on the lookout for shallows. The
words "Shamal—Yemin " ("left—right"), delivered in a
short, sharp tone, are the only sounds he utters. The
steersman, all eye and ear, obeys him like his hand. The
sailors squat in their places, quiet and alert as cats.
And now it is no longer six miles, but five—no longer
five, but four. The Fostat, thanks to her bigger sail, has
well-higb overtaken us; and the Bagstones is not more than
a hundred yards behind the Fostat. On we go, however,
past palm-woods of nobler growth than any we have yet
seen ; past forlorn homeward-bound dahabeeyahs lying-to
against the wind ; past native boats, and riverside huts,
and clouds of driving sand ; till the corner is turned, and
the last reach gained, and the minarets of Assiian are seen
as through a shifting fog in the distance. The ruined
tower crowning yonder promontory stands over against the
town ; and those black specks midway in the bed of the
river are the first outlying rocks of the cataract. The
channel there is hemmed in between reefs and sand-banks,
and to steer it is difficult in even the calmest weather.
Still our canvas strains to the wind, and the Phils rushes
on full-tilt, like a racer at the hurdles.
Every eye now is turned upon Rei's Hassan; and Rei's
Hassan stands rigid, like a man of stone. The rocks are
close ahead—so close that we can see the breakers pouring
over them and the swirling eddies between. Our way