My Companion Was So Anxious
To Reach Meccah, That He Would Not Hear Of Devotions.
About eight A.M.
we entered the village, and looked for the boy Mohammed in vain.
Old
Ali was dreadfully perplexed; a host of high-born Turkish pilgrims
were, he said, expecting him; his mule was missing—could never appear—he
must be late—should probably never reach Meccah—what would become of him? I
began by administering admonition to the mind diseased; but signally
failing in a cure, I amused myself with contemplating the world from my
Shugduf, leaving the office of directing it to the old Zemzemi. Now he
stopped, then he pressed forward; here he thought he saw Mohammed,
there he discovered our tent; at one time he would “nakh” the camel to
await, in patience, his supreme hour; at another, half mad with
nervousness, he would urge the excellent Mas’ud to hopeless inquiries.
Finally, by good fortune, we found one of the boy Mohammed’s cousins, who
led us to an enclosure
[p.203] called Hosh al-Uzam, in the Southern portion of the Muna Basin,
at the base of Mount Sabir.[FN#1] There we pitched the tent, refreshed
ourselves, and awaited the truant’s return. Old Ali, failing to disturb
my equanimity, attempted, as those who consort with philosophers often
will do, to quarrel with me. But, finding no material wherewith to
build a dispute in such fragments as “Ah!”—“Hem!”—“Wallah!” he hinted desperate
intentions against the boy Mohammed.
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