The Outer Man Of These Fight-Sons
Was Contemptible; Small Chocolate-Coloured Beings, Stunted And Thin,
With Mops Of Course Bushy Hair Burned Brown By The Sun, Straggling
Beards, Vicious Eyes, Frowning Brows, Screaming Voices, And Well-Made,
But Attenuated, Limbs.
On their heads were Kufiyahs in the last stage
of wear:
A tattered shirt, indigo-dyed, and girt with a bit of common
rope, composed their clothing; and their feet were protected from the
stones by soles of thick leather, kept in place by narrow thongs tied
to the ankle. Both were armed, one with a matchlock, and a
Shintiyan[FN#13] in a leathern scabbard, slung over the shoulder, the
other with a Nabbut, and both showed at the waist the Arab's invariable
companion, the Jambiyah (dagger). These ragged fellows, however, had
their pride. They would eat with me, and not disdain, like certain
self-styled Caballeros, to ask for more; but of work they would do
none. No promise of "Bakhshish," potent as
[p.249] the spell of that word is, would induce them to assist in
pitching my tent: they even expected Shaykh Nur to cook for them, and I
had almost to use violence, for even the just excuse of a sore foot was
insufficient to procure the privilege of mounting my Shugduf while the
camel was sitting. It was, they said, the custom of the country from
time immemorial to use a ladder when legs would not act. I agreed with
them, but objected that I had no ladder.
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