CHAPTER VI
THE CITY OF THE HUNDRED GATES
A smile of ineffable pity rests on the countenance of the aged, disabled, and supremely dirty beggar who squats at the base of the Northern Pylon of the great Temple of Karnak, as, powdered from head to foot with desert dust, we file past him at the tail of our dragoman through its gigantic portals. He is too lazy, too sublimely content with mere living, is this aged sage, to join for the moment in the pursuit of bakshish. Moreover, he has observed how his brother pests have sped on the hunt for piastres, and the result, so far, has not been encouraging. When Ali was thirty years younger he would have had more perseverance. Thirty years ago he would gladly enough have formed one of that crowd
