“Still, you promised.”

“Ay, and will keep my word, if the monsieur agrees to the condition.”

“Let me hear it!”

“I will procure a burnoose, you shall put the robe on, and be an Arab for to-night.”

John draws a breath of relief, he smiles.

“Willingly, Mustapha.  Let us lose no time, I beg of you!”

“Then, monsieur, come!”

As he passes the clerk that worthy bends forward to say: 

“Does monsieur know these people who have come from the steamer?”

John sees a list of names under his own.

Professor Sharpe and wife. 
Lady Ruth Stanhope. 
Colonel Lionel Blunt. 
Miss Pauline Potter.

There they are, all present, and he hears the voice of Aunt Gwen in the dining-room, even at the moment of his reading her name, gently chiding a waiter for not serving the professor more promptly, always in a hurry, but generally good-natured withal.

“They are friends of mine,” he says, and then follows his Arab guide.

Once on the street John observes what is passing around him, and the scene on the grand square is certainly lively enough, with the garrison band discoursing sweet music, the numerous lights from cafe and magasius de nouveautes, and crowds moving about.

Presently they come to a bazaar, where every article known to oriental ingenuity, from Zanzibar carpets, embroideries of Tunis, Damascus cutlery, and odd jewelry to modern novelties can be found.

Here they enter.

The guide selects what he needs, and John pays for it, wondering what sort of clumsiness he will display in the wearing of an Arab costume.

Until they reach the border of the old town upon the hill-side, there is little need of his donning the ridiculous affair.

He casts many inquisitive glances upon his guide and other Arabs whom they meet to see how they wear the burnoose.

“I reckon John Craig won’t disgrace Chicago, if he isn’t to the manner born,” he concludes.

“Now, monsieur will allow me,” says his tall guide, leading him into a dark corner.

There is some little difficulty experienced, but in the end John turns Arab.

“Say not one word—­if saluted, I will reply,” is the last caution he receives.

Then they move on.

Now their road ascends.

They are in Al Jezira, the old Arab town.

The passage is so narrow that at times John could easily touch the walls of the spectral houses on either side by extending his arms.

Every little while there is a short step.  Now and then an arch from which hangs a queer lantern, burning dimly.  Over a door, here and there, a light marks the residence of some Moor or Arab of note.  But for these the passage-way would be totally dark, even on the brightest moonlight night.

They meet bearded and turbaned Arabs, who stalk majestically along, proud as Lucifer, even without a piastre in their purses—­even women vailed as usual, wearing anklets, and with their nails stained with henna.