It is the proud cemetery of the Mameluke Sultans, whose day was done in the Middle Ages.
But if one looks closely, what disorder, what a mass of ruins there are in this town--still a little fairylike--beaten this evening by the squalls of winter.

The domes, the holy tombs, the minarets and terraces, all are crumbling: the hand of death is upon them all.

But down there, in the far distance, near to that silver streak which meanders through the plains, and which is the old Nile, the advent of new times is proclaimed by the chimneys of factories, impudently high, that disfigure everything, and spout forth into the twilight thick clouds of black smoke.
The night is falling as we descend from the esplanade to return to our lodgings.
We have first to traverse the old town of Cairo, a maze of streets still full of charm, wherein the thousand little lamps of the Arab shops already shed their quiet light.

Passing through streets which twist at their caprice, beneath overhanging balconies covered with wooden trellis of exquisite workmanship, we have to slacken speed in the midst of a dense crowd of men and beasts.

Close to us pass women, veiled in black, gently mysterious as in the olden times, and men of unmoved gravity, in long robes and white draperies; and little donkeys pompously bedecked in collars of blue beads; and rows of leisurely camels, with their loads of lucerne, which exhale the pleasant fragrance of the fields.