At One P.M We Passed A Basaltic Ridge; And Then, Entering A
Long Depressed Line Of Country, A Kind Of Valley, Paced Down It Five
Tedious Hours.
The Samum as usual was blowing hard, and it seemed to
affect the travellers’ tempers.
In one place I saw a Turk, who could not
speak a word of Arabic, violently disputing with an Arab who could not
understand a word of Turkish. The pilgrim insisted upon adding to the
camel’s load a few dry sticks, such as are picked up for cooking. The
camel-man as perseveringly threw off the extra burthen. They screamed
with rage, hustled each other, and at last the Turk dealt the Arab a
heavy blow. I afterwards heard that the pilgrim was mortally wounded
that night, his stomach being ripped
[p.128] open with a dagger. On enquiring what had become of him, I was
assured that he had been comfortably wrapped up in his shroud, and
placed in a half-dug grave. This is the general practice in the case of
the poor and solitary, whom illness or accident incapacitates from
proceeding. It is impossible to contemplate such a fate without horror:
the torturing thirst of a wound,[FN#4] the burning sun heating the
brain to madness, and—worst of all, for they do not wait till death—the
attacks of the jackal, the vulture, and the raven of the wild.
At six P.M., before the light of day had faded, we traversed a rough
and troublesome ridge.
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