At Four P.M. We Came To A Steep And Rocky Pass, Up Which We Toiled With
Difficulty.
The face of the country was rising once more, and again
presented the aspect of numerous small basins divided and surrounded by
hills.
As we
[p.150] jogged on we were passed by the cavalcade of no less a
personage than the Sharif of Meccah. Abd al-Muttalib bin Ghalib is a
dark, beardless old man with African features derived from his mother.
He was plainly dressed in white garments and a white muslin
turband,[FN#28] which made him look jet black; he rode an ambling mule,
and the only emblem of his dignity was the large green satin umbrella
born[e] by an attendant on foot.[FN#29] Scattered around him were about
forty matchlock men, mostly slaves. At long intervals, after their
father, came his four sons, Riza Bey, Abdullah, Ali, and Ahmad, the
latter still a child. The three elder brothers rode splendid
dromedaries at speed; they were young men of light complexion, with the
true Meccan cast of features, showily dressed in bright coloured silks,
and armed, to denote their rank, with sword and gold-hilted
dagger.[FN#30]
[p.151]We halted as evening approached, and strained our eyes, but all
in vain, to catch sight of Meccah, which lies in a winding valley. By
Shaykh Abdullah’s direction I recited, after the usual devotions, the
following prayer. The reader is for[e]warned that it is difficult to
preserve the flowers of Oriental rhetoric in a European tongue.
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