an altar-like elevation, also of earthen-work, containing a hole for a charcoal fire, upon which were three huge coffee-pots dirtily tinned.  Near it were ranged the Shishas, or Egyptian hookahs, old, exceedingly unclean, and worn by age and hard work.  A wooden framework, pierced with circular apertures, supported a number of porous earthenware gullehs (gargoulettes, or monkey jars) full of cold, sweet water; the charge for each was, as usual in Al-Hijaz, five paras.  Such was the furniture of the cafe, and the only relief to the barrenness of the view was a fine mellowing atmosphere composed of smoke, steam,

[p.216] flies, and gnats in about equal proportions.  I have been diffuse in my description of the coffee-house, as it was a type of its class:  from Alexandria to Aden the traveller will everywhere meet with buildings of the same kind.

Our happiness in this Paradise-for such it was to us after the “Golden Wire"-was nearly sacrificed by Sa’ad the Demon, whose abominable temper led him at once into a quarrel with the master of the cafe.  And the latter, an ill-looking, squint-eyed, low-browed, broad-shouldered fellow, showed himself nowise unwilling to meet the Demon half way.  The two worthies, after a brief bandying of bad words, seized each other’s throats leisurely, so as to give the spectators time and encouragement to interfere.  But when friends and acquaintances were hanging on to both heroes so firmly that they could not move hand or arm, their wrath, as usual, rose, till it was terrible to see.  The little village resounded with the war, and many a sturdy knave rushed in, sword or cudgel in hand, so as not to lose the sport.  During the heat of the fray, a pistol which was in Omar Effendi’s hand went off-accidentally of course-and the ball passed so close to the tins containing the black and muddy Mocha, that it drew the attention of all parties.  As if by magic, the storm was lulled.  A friend recognised Sa’ad the Demon, and swore that he was no black slave, but a soldier at Al-Madinah-"no waiter, but a Knight Templar.”  This caused him to be looked upon as rather a distinguished man, and he proved his right to the honour by insisting that his late enemy should feed with him, and when the other decorously hung back, by dragging him to dinner with loud cries.

My alias that day was severely tried.  Besides the Persian pilgrims, a number of nondescripts who came in the same vessel were hanging about the coffee-house; lying down, smoking, drinking water, bathing and picking their teeth with their daggers.  One inquisitive man

[p.217] was always at my side.  He called himself a Pathan (Afghan settled in India); he could speak five or six languages, he knew a number of people everywhere, and he had travelled far and wide over Central Asia.  These fellows are always good detectors of an incognito.  I avoided answering his question about my native place, and after telling him that I had no longer name or nation, being a Darwaysh, I