Were it not for the lack of verisimilitude in the carriage that has brought us hither, we should be able now to take this desert quite seriously--for in fact it has no limits.
After travelling for about three-quarters of an hour, we see in the distance a number of lights, which have already been kindled in the growing darkness.

They seem too bright to be those of an Arab encampment.

And our driver turning round and pointing to them says: "Chelal!" Chelal--that is the name of the Arab village, on the riverside, where you take the boat for Philae.

To our disgust the place is lighted by electricity.

It consists of a station, a factory with a long smoking chimney, and a dozen or so suspicious-looking taverns, reeking of alcohol, without which, it would seem, our European civilisation could not implant itself in a new country.
And here we embark for Philae.