But instead of returning to Luxor, like the good people whose carriages have just departed, I rather choose to pay her a visit.
Her dwelling is some distance away, and I shall not reach it till the dead of night.
First of all I have to retrace my steps, to return along the whole avenue of rams, to pass again by the feet of the white giant, who has already assumed his phantomlike appearance, while the violet waves that bathed the town-mummy thicken and turn to a greyish-blue.

And then, leaving behind me the pylons guarded by the broken giants, I thread my way among the palaces of the centre.
It is among these palaces that I encounter for good and all the night, with the first cries of the owls and ospreys.

It is still warm there, on account of the heat stored by the stones during the day, but one feels nevertheless that the air is freezing.
At a crossing a tall human figure looms up, draped in black and armed with a baton.

It is a roving Bedouin, one of the guards, and this more or less is the dialogue exchanged between us (freely and succinctly translated): "Your permit, sir." "Here it is." (Here we combine our efforts to illuminate the said permit by the light of a match.) "Good, I will go with you." "No.

I beg of you." "Yes; I had better.