It Was Sunset; The Plain Bristled
With Tent-Pegs, Litters Were Crushed, Pedestrians Were Trampled, Camels
Were Overthrown:
Single combats with sticks and other weapons took
place; here a woman, there a child, and there an animal were lost;
briefly, it was a chaotic confusion.
To my disgust, old Ali insisted upon bestowing his company upon me. He
gave over his newly found mule to the boy Mohammed, bidding him take
care of the beast, and mounted with me in the Shugduf. I had persuaded
Shaykh Mas’ud, with a dollar, to keep close in rear of the pretty Meccan;
and I wanted to sketch the Holy Hill. The senior began to give orders
about the camel—I, counter-orders. The camel was halted. I urged it on:
old Ali directed it to be stopped. Meanwhile the charming face that
smiled at me from the litter grew dimmer and dimmer; the more I
stormed, the less I was listened to—a string of camels crossed our path—I
lost sight of the beauty. Then we began to advance. Again, my
determination to sketch seemed likely to fail before the Zemzemi’s little
snake’s eye. After a few minutes’ angry search for expedients, one
suggested itself. “Effendi!” said old Ali, “sit quiet; there is danger here.” I
tossed about like one suffering from evil conscience or from the
[p.200] colic. “Effendi!” shrieked the senior, “what art thou doing? Thou
wilt be the death of us.” “Wallah!” I replied with a violent plunge, “it is all
thy fault!
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