An Egyptian romance of the present time, full of the charm of the land of the Nile and dramatic in plot and setting. The book is a most creditable romance vibrant with human nature and the mystery and fascination of the East. A young Englishman, with an abundant fortune and a passion for Egyptology, visits the village of Al-Kusiyeh because of the rumor that ancient arms and jewels had come from the Sheik. There he meets Kara, the lineal descendant of the great Athka-Ra and grandson of Princess Hatatcha, who, at seventeen, captivated London and Lord Roane, who divorced his wife for her sake, but whom she refused to marry. Their daughter was Kara's mother. Lord Roan's grand-daughter was the one unselfish, honest love of his life, and he and his dissolute son are given government positions in Cairo, where the Englishman and Kara both meet, and wish to marry the grand-daughter. Jealousy, treachery, plot and counterplot are thrown against a background of ancient custom and belief. It is a story of a vendetta, in which an Egyptian prince-to avenge the wrong of his grandmother-pits himself against the love of an Englishman for the possession of the woman who is by blood his cousin.The sun fell hot upon the bosom of the Nile and clung there, vibrant, hesitating, yet aggressive, as if baffled in its desire to penetrate beneath the river's lurid surface. For the Nile defies the sun, and relegates him to his own broad domain, wherein his power is undisputed.On either side the broad stream humanity shrank from Ra's seething disc. The shaduf workers had abandoned their skin-covered buckets and bamboo poles to seek shelter from the heat beneath a straggling tree or a straw mat elevated on stalks of ripe sugar-cane. The boats of the fishermen lay in little coves, where the sails were spread as awnings to shade their crews. The fellaheen laborers had all retired to their clay huts to sleep through this fiercest period of the afternoon heat. On the Nile, however, a small steam dahabeah puffed lazily along, stemming with its slow motion the sweep of the mighty river toward the sea. The Arab stoker, naked and sweating, stood as far as possible from the little boiler and watched it with a look of absolute repulsion upon his swarthy face. The engineer, also an Arab, lay stretched upon the deck half asleep, but with both ears alert to catch any sound that might denote the fact that the straining, rickety engine was failing to perform its full duty. Back of the tiny cabin sat the dusky steersman, as naked and inert as his fellows, while under the deck awning reclined the one white man of the party, a young Englishman clothed in khaki knickerbockers and a white silk shirt well open at the throat.There were no tourists in Egypt at this season. If you find a white man on the Nile in April, he is either attached to some exploration party engaged in excavations or a government employee from Cairo, Assyut or Luxor, bent upon an urgent mission. The dahabeah was not a government boat, though, so that our Englishman was more likely to be an explorer than an official. It was evident he was no stranger to tropical climes, if we judged by his sun-browned skin and the quiet resignation to existing conditions with which he puffed his black briar and relaxed his muscular frame. He did not sleep, but lay with his head upon a low wicker rest that enabled him to sweep the banks of the Nile with his keen blue eyes.