[p.143]the street leading towards the Desert.  As we emerged from the huge gateway of the Caravanserai all the bystanders, except only the porter, who believed me to be a Persian, and had seen me with the drunken captain, exclaimed, “Allah bless thee, Y’al-Hajj,[FN#3] and restore thee to thy country and thy friends!” And passing through the Bab al-Nasr, where I addressed the salutation of peace to the sentry, and to the officer commanding the guard, both gave me God-speed with great cordiality[FN#4]-the pilgrim’s blessing in Asia, like the old woman’s in Europe, being supposed to possess peculiar efficacy.  Outside the gate my friends took a final leave of me, and I will not deny having felt a tightening of heart as their honest faces and forms faded in the distance.

But Shaykh Nassar switches his camel’s shoulder, and appears inclined to take the lead.  This is a trial of manliness.  There is no time for emotion.  Not a moment can be spared, even for a retrospect.  I kick my dromedary, who steps out into a jog-trot.  The Badawin with a loud ringing laugh attempt to give me the go-by.  I resist, and we continue like children till the camels are at their speed, though we have eighty-four miles before us, and above us an atmosphere like a furnace blast.  The road is deserted at this hour, otherwise grave Moslem

[p.144]travellers would have believed the police to be nearer than convenient to us.

Presently we drew rein, and exchanged our pace for one more seasonable, whilst the sun began to tell on man and beast.  High raised as we were above the ground, the reflected heat struck us sensibly, and the glare of a macadamized road added a few extra degrees of caloric.[FN#5] The Badawin, to refresh themselves, prepare to smoke.  They fill my chibuk, light it with a flint and steel, and cotton dipped in a solution of gunpowder, and pass it over to me.[FN#6] After a few puffs I return it to them, and they use it turn by turn.  Then they begin to while away the tedium of the road by asking questions, which passe-temps is not easily exhausted; for they are never satisfied till they know as much of you as you do of yourself.  They next resort to talking about victuals; for with this hungry race, food, as a topic of conversation, takes the place of money in happier lands.  And lastly, even this engrossing subject being exhausted for the moment,

[p.145]they take refuge in singing; and, monotonous and droning as it is, their Modinha has yet an artless plaintiveness, which admirably suits the singer and the scenery.  If you listen to the words, you will surely hear allusions to bright verdure, cool shades, bubbling rills, or something which hereabouts man hath not, and yet which his soul desires.

And now while Nassar and his brother are chaunting a duet,-the refrain being,

“W’al arz mablul bi matar,”
“And the earth wet with rain,"-

I must crave leave to say a few words, despite the triteness of the subject, about the modern Sinaitic race of Arabs.