ON THE ROAD TO ARAFAT
The most important days of the Pilgrimage are the 8th, 9th, and 10th of
the moon of Zú-’l-hijjah. Now, the 8th of Zú-’l-hijjah is the day of
the Repose of the Soul. In Arabic it is called Youm-ul-Tarvih, and it
sees the exodus of the pilgrims from Mecca on their way to the Hill of
Arafat. The most noteworthy “column” of the Hájj is the sermon which is
preached on the mount on the following day. No pilgrim is qualified to
call himself Hájí unless he is present on that occasion. The preacher
sits on a camel, and the pilgrims gather round him, those who can find
no room on the slopes taking up their positions on the plain. Not ten
pilgrims in a hundred can hear a word, and so the majority while away
the time in praying, in weeping, in chatting, in telling stories, and
even in making love. If they fall asleep or lose consciousness they
are counted as absent. They must arrive before noon and must remain
until after sunset. If they leave before the appointed time they must
pay forfeit either by sacrificing a camel or else by keeping fast for
eighteen days running. This day is named Youm-ul-Arafat in Arabic.
The pilgrims, before reaching the plain of Arafat, must perform their
religious purifications, and, on arriving on the Hill itself, they must
recite the following Niyyat: “O God, I purpose, in obedience to Thy
commands, to abide here until the setting of the sun.” With this they
must say aloud a prayer which runs: “I praise Thee, I glorify Thee,
O Lord; there is no God but Thee. I have burdened my conscience with
wrongdoing, and now acknowledge my sins. O, forgive me my trespasses,
O Lord, for, verily, Thou art the best forgiver.” Nor is this all; for
the pilgrims, having declared their intention and confessed their sins,
must pray for their parents, their relatives, their co-religionists,
their servants, and their slaves. The number of persons thus honoured
in the remembrance should not be less than forty; and for this act
of grace the pilgrims will be rewarded one hundred thousandfold.
Furthermore, in the course of the day what we have called the Song
of the Winding-sheet or Talbih must be repeatedly intoned, as must
also the Tamjid or hymn of praise, and the glorification of God’s
omnipotence, which is styled Takbir. Then, when the sun is setting, the
pilgrims turn their faces in the direction of the Ka’bah and recite
this prayer: “I take refuge in Thee, O Lord, from poverty, and from
the evil that may come out of the day or the night; I repent of all
my wicked deeds, trusting in Thy gracious pardon; and I seek shelter
from fear in Thy protection: O Lord, I repent, I repent, I repent.”
The second “column” of the Hájj takes place immediately after sunset,
when the pilgrims rush forward impetuously from Arafat to Muzdalifah,
in order to remember God near the holy monument (in Arabic, al Masher
al harám), where, on a mountain on the thither side of Muzdalifah, the
Prophet is said to have stood praying until his face shone as one who
had seen his Lord. There the pilgrims pass the night, and at the hour
of morning prayer they say: “O Lord, in obedience to Thy commands, I
break my morning at Thy Masher al harám.” Thence they proceed to Mina,
through which valley they passed on their road to Arafat, and there the
stoning of the devil and the slaying of the sacrifices, two notable
“columns” of the pilgrimage, are performed. This is the Youm-ul-Nahre
or Day of Sacrifice.
On the eve of Youm-ul-Tarvih my friends and I went to stay the night
with a Persian grandee who had taken up his lodgings in a large house
near the Harem. We will call his name Ardashir Morad Khan. His was in
many respects an exceptional character. He had acquired a knowledge
of the French tongue without learning to detest the French nation,
and had studied the Darwinian theory of the origin of species without
aping the European. His conversation was grave and impersonal. He was
communicative without being confidential. He never betrayed a trust,
nor blabbed his personal secrets. From him I learned all I know of the
political situation in Persia; and the Youm-ul-Tarvih was six hours
gone--remember, in the East, the day begins and ends with the setting
of the sun--ere we closed the debate and flung ourselves down to rest.
Morning broke. Ardashir Morad Khan, having performed his ablutions, was
saying his prayers, and I was drinking a cup of tea when there came a
knock at the door, and a Persian friend of ours rushed into the room.
His excitement knew no bounds. He stood bereft of speech from sheer
lack of breath; but his face spoke volumes.
“Well, Sheykh Eissa,” said I, “what is the news?”
Ardashir Morad Khan dropped his rosary and looked up, listening. Sheykh
Eissa coughed as if to clear his gorge, and cried--
“My manuscript on the Bedouins is lost; the precious volume has been
stolen! For the last seventeen years, as I told you yesterday, I have
wandered from tribe to tribe as a talisman-monger in order that I might
study the customs and the character of the Bedouins, and give to the
world a faithful history of my experiences. I had promised to show you
the result of my labour, and now I am constrained by fate to re-shape
my impressions. Youm-ul-Tarvih? Wáh! How can my soul repose?”
I handed the rebellious little man a cup of tea. Having taken a sip,
he reached out for the sugar. “Your tea is as bitter as mortality,”
he said, and straightway converted it into syrup. I recalled a pretty
Persian story. “Perhaps,” I replied, “the clay from which the cup was
made was once man.” The fancy, though borrowed, restored the Sheykh’s
good humour. “It is the burned clay of my thief’s grandfather,” he
declared, with a quaint uplifting of his shaggy eyebrows, “or I am an
infidel. My precious manuscript--how can to-day be Youm-ul-Tarvih?
Assuredly it is the Day of Sacrifice.” Seyyid ’Alí now entered the
room. He said: “I have engaged a _moghavem_, what we Persians call a
_hamlehdar_; he will be here with his mules and camels at midday; and
our tents are even now on their way to the Hill of Arafat, where an
aristocratic position has been reserved for them.”
“Surely you mean the Valley of Mina?” I asked. “No, no,” broke in our
host, Ardashir Morad Khan; “the custom of sleeping at Mina on the
outward journey was abolished long ago on account of the delay its
observance occasioned, and that for no purpose that would warrant----”
Sheykh Eissa leaped to his feet. “I ask pardon of God,” he cried. “Why,
the Prophet himself was accustomed to halt at Mina from six hours after
sunrise on Youm-ul-Tarvih until sunrise next morning, and there he
used to say the five prescribed prayers. Surely that fact alone would
warrant our observance of the law?”
“Well,” I replied, “I must confess that I am delighted to know that we
shall have more roomy quarters for the night. The Valley of Mina is a
mere gully. According to my calculation there must be scarcely less
than three hundred thousand pilgrims in this city.”
“Say four hundred thousand and you will not exaggerate the number,”
interrupted our host. “What is your opinion, Sheykh Eissa?”
“The pilgrims are innumerable this year, your Excellency. It is not
possible to count them. The angels in heaven are not more numerous.
Nine years ago the pilgrims outnumbered the present calculation of our
distinguished friend. This year Youm-ul-Nahre falls on a Friday, and I
am sure there never was before a concourse so great in the City of God.”
“I admire the beauty of your flight, Sheykh Eissa,” I said, dryly.
“But let us deal with facts. I came here by the last pilgrim boat.
Some two hundred thousand passports had then been handed in at Jiddah
by the seafaring pilgrims. Do you mean to say that the number of Hájís
who have crossed the desert are equal to the number of those who have
crossed the seas from every corner of the Muslim world? I will never
believe it. The advantages are all in favour of the oversea route. It
is cheaper, it is quicker, it is safer, and it is perhaps less tedious.
For a fare of a few dollars any starveling can go by steamer from Suez
to Jiddah. The result is that the old caravan routes with the one
exception of the Syrian are, comparatively speaking, deserted. For
instance, the Muslims of Morocco and North Africa are now conveyed to
Mecca by sea. The contingent sent by Persia down the Gulf outnumbers
that which journeys across Arabia. True, the Syrian caravan still
maintains not a little of its ancient glory. This year it is unusually
gigantic, containing as it does, in my opinion, not less than seventeen
thousand camels. The Bedouins are also, I admit, in force; so let us
say there are two hundred and fifty thousand pilgrims in Mecca all
told. We shall have a better opportunity of testing the accuracy of
the figures when we are encamped on the Plain of Arafat. But be the
number what it may, it is, at the lowest estimate, far too great for
me not to congratulate myself that the custom of sleeping overnight in
that death-trap of Mina has been done away with.”
Sheykh Eissa smiled. “It would be impossible to extol its charms as
a camping-ground. But I, for one, remember that, though the halt on
the outward journey has been abolished, there we must stay for three
or at the least for two days after slaying the sacrifices. For the
rest, I am far from sharing your love of the oversea route from the
outlying dominions of the Prophet. In my youth I travelled by caravan
from Morocco to Medina and thence to this holy city. Along the northern
coast of Africa, through Algeria, Tunis, and Tripoli, to the Land of
Pyramids, we wandered, halting for one day in every six days in order
that our camels might gather strength to sustain the hardships of the
road; and in Cairo we joined the Egyptian caravan, whence we proceeded
together on our way--an endless string of pilgrims, glorying in our
liberty, praising God for His gifts of heaven and earth, burying our
dead where they fell--now in the Sinaitic Peninsula, and now in the
desert to the south, until we reached at last the sepulchre of the
Prophet and the place of his birth. I deny not that God created the sea
as well as the desert. Nay, nay, spare your eloquence. My stomach at
sea is as inconstant as the waters. I am a Bedouin at heart. However,
you must stay at Mina for three or for two days after the Day of
Sacrifice.”
“If the cholera fiend should not drive us hence in search of refuge,” I
interpolated. “The epidemic is on the increase. The sacrifices slain,
we shall be only too glad to make good our escape to the sea.”
“True,” said Seyyid ’Alí, grimly, “if the cholera fiend should not
choose for us an underground route to a city of eternal rest! If it
please God, I shall conduct your Excellency to Jiddah so soon as the
sun shall set on Youm-ul-Nahre. For I have no wish to fall a victim to
the fell disease, Sheykh Eissa.”
With the foregoing words my guide bade us good-bye and went about his
business in my service. He came back, however, almost immediately. “May
it please your Excellency,” he said, addressing Ardashir Morad Khan,
“Khalil is fallen sick of the cholera and is even now at the point of
death.” Now, Khalil was our host’s steward and had set out for the
Hill of Arafat in charge of the tents and baggage. Ardashir Morad Khan
looked extremely grave. “God have mercy on his soul!” he cried. Then,
“Where is he now?” he asked; “and who has taken his place?” Seyyid ’Alí
replied that the man had been brought back on a bier to Mecca, and was
then lying in a cellar attached to the kitchen of the house in which we
were. A panic would have followed this statement had not our host cried
out in a voice of sternest command: “I must request you all to be calm.
We must set the servants an example of courage. Are we not the slaves
of God?... Well, Seyyid ’Alí, who has taken over the control of our
caravan?” “The cook of your Excellency’s household,” replied my guide,
“assumed the direction of affairs. I have done my best to restore the
confidence of your Excellency’s household. The servants need a firm
hand to keep them from running away.”
So Ardashir Morad Khan left the room, and when he came back I requested
permission to see the sick man. The other guests, who were sitting
round the room with their backs to the walls, jumped up at once and
made a low bow to me as I passed by to the servant’s quarters. The
Meccan houses are generally lower than the surface of the street
without, and when this is the case a flight of stone steps leads from
the first floor into the court round which the apartments range. I
found Khalil in the cellar. He was sinking fast. Nobody had dared to
stay with him. His eyes were dried up in the sockets and blackened
all round the rims. Not an ounce of flesh remained on his body. The
stench was unendurable. The bearers, having stretched his legs in the
direction of the Ka’bah and given him a cup of sour milk wherewith
to quench his thirst, had gone away, leaving him a prey to the fell
disease. Compassion rent my heart, but I could do nothing: remedy I
had none. I saw, moreover, that he was too far gone to recover, and,
indeed, scarcely was he aware of my presence than his new-born hope was
strangled by death. “Yá--Allah!” he muttered, and that was the last
time he drew breath. Having rejoined my host, I went with him into the
city.
The streets were packed with camels, brought in thousands by the
Bedouins and by the Syrian and the Egyptian drivers. Round about the
Harem the _moghavems_ tried our endurance to the utmost. These are the
men who conduct the pilgrims by camel caravan to the Hill of Arafat
and back, supplying all their needs on the journey. There is no fixed
price for the hiring of a camel, but by dint of persistent bargaining
it is possible to get one for five shillings, and each _moghavem_ may
have as many as fifty pilgrims under him. We were tormented by these
contractors more than I had ever been tormented by the Indian jugglers
outside the gates of any hotel in Bombay. They were as plentiful as
flies in Egypt and not less irritating. Perhaps that is the fault of
the pilgrims themselves. They begin by feigning indifference, and when
they have reduced the _moghavems_ to a haughty silence they assume
an air of eager business. Thus the _moghavems_ have learned from
experience never to take no for an answer.
Out of the madding crowd the talk was all of the cholera epidemic.
On my way to a coffee-house I happened to meet a Turkish official,
an acquaintance of mine, and he gave it as his conviction that the
death-rate had risen to over five hundred victims a day. He advised
me to leave the Valley of Mina at sunset on the tenth of the moon.
In the coffee-house a Syrian pilgrim entered into conversation with
me. He told many stories of his pilgrimage across the desert: of
the discomforts and the perils of the road, of the cruelties of
the drivers, and the almost inconceivable presumption of his own
_moghavem_. With the immense caravan had come the Syrian Mahmil, in
the charge of a Pasha, and the Surreh, in the care of another Turkish
dignitary. This Surreh is the pension sent from Constantinople to
the officials of the Harem. It was formerly the accumulated hoard of
centuries of legacies. It is now managed by the Imperial Treasury. A
strong force of cavalry accompanied the caravan, which, according to
the pilgrim in question, counted some eighteen thousand camels.
The number stated was, perhaps, an exaggeration, though a pardonable
one, for the string which I saw on reaching the Plain of Sheykh Mahmud,
where the caravan had been encamped, and which was now on the move,
extended for miles and miles. I determined then and there to avoid the
crush on the road by remaining in Mecca until the day was far spent.
It was four hours before sunset ere I could tear myself away from the
Plain of Sheykh Mahmud. The endless string of camels and of pilgrim
wayfarers was an unforgettable sight, and on my return to my host’s
house I met crowds of Syrian and Egyptian stragglers, mounted and on
foot, proceeding up the Moalla to rejoin the immense caravan which was
already threading its way to the mountains.
Seyyid ’Alí gave me a hearty welcome when I entered the house. He had
scoured the city, he said, in search of me, and had given me up for
dead. I found everything in readiness for our journey, and when we
had smoked a kalyán or two and quenched our thirst we got astride our
ambling mules and made for the Hill of Arafat.
Now, when my friends and I left Mecca for the Hill of Arafat it was
about four o’clock in the afternoon of Youm-ul-Tarvih. Late as it was,
the streets were still packed with men and beasts. In the indescribable
confusion steady progress was impossible, and to the universal disorder
was added the danger of a general stampede on the part of our mules.
The uncertain tempers of those animals of ours taxed our patience to
the utmost. We had hired them in the belief that they were tractable
creatures trained to amble. We rode them in terror of our lives,
conscious of our impotence to control their paces. Now they would
charge through a crowd in a panic blind and headlong, and next they
would stand stock-still in a sweat of suspicion at the mere sight of a
straw or a splash of water on the road. Our _moghavem_, having a lively
inkling of our rising indignation, assured us with haughty unconcern
that we had been wiser to have followed his advice and ridden camels.
With one thing and another it took us quite an hour to reach the
outskirts of the city. All the people we had met wore íhram except the
drivers and the servants, who were in their ordinary clothes.
[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN DONKEY AND ITS DRIVER.]
Outside Mecca the road widens, taking an abrupt turn from a northerly
to a north-easterly direction. We passed innumerable huts and Bedouin
tents, we skirted the Jebelé-Nur or Mountain of Light on our left, and
then, swerving back to the north, we kept a sharp look-out for the
pitfalls which beset our every step. In no case were the mountains
many miles away. The colour of them changed gradually from a gloomy
drab to a deep brown. Many camels had knocked up and lay festering
in the sun. Along the route dead pilgrims had been buried so close
to the surface that the odour of putrefaction polluted the air. The
stench of decaying flesh was positively sickening. Again and again I
had to hold my nose and cry aloud, “Astaghferallah Menash-Shaitan: I
seek shelter in God from Satan.” This phrase was used more often than
any other, and in varying moods and with many meanings. Every time an
animal fell down its driver would mutter the expression. If the animal
remained obstinate, refusing to rise, the driver would rub his hands
and repeat the words. An Arab Sheykh who rode behind me took refuge in
God against the devil whenever he failed in his attempt to get past
me. This was merely a sign of impatience. Had he given vent to his
feelings by saying the formula sixty-nine times in quick succession I
might possibly have made way for him for no other reason than because
I should have expected him to strike a blow in defence of his claim to
precede me. For the Prophet has said: “Utter not a word in wroth until
you have repeated seventy Astaghferallahs.” Believe me, it is a word
to conjure with. As a mark of ironic negation it is more convincing
than the strongest affirmative. In a rocky pass I asked Seyyid ’Alí,
whose face had turned copper-red, and whose lips were scorched, if he
was thirsty. “Astaghferallah, yá-Moulai!” he cried, smiling ironically.
Later on, in the neck of the pass, where two men could not ride
abreast, I had proof of the expression being used by way of a courteous
refusal. Riding far ahead of us two mullás in íhram, with shaven heads
and unkempt beards, drew rein simultaneously, each requesting the other
to pass on. This exchange of punctilio was most unseasonable. So long
did the two priests bandy courtesy, crying “Astaghferallah” one after
the other, that the word was soon used in a contrary sense by the
pilgrims in the rear.
We waited about five minutes for the intervening pilgrims to ride on
in single file, and when we reached the spot it was to find that the
road lay between two rocks some four feet apart. One of my friends,
quoting a well-worn proverb, bent towards me and remarked: “Why do they
not remove those stones out of the path of the Faithful?” Seyyid ’Alí
observed a priest in front of him, and replied significantly, “I behold
a bigger stone in my path!” The priest, who was reading the Kurán atop
of his camel, overheard the words, and tugged his camel round that
he might face the sceptical rascal. The camel made a vicious snap at
Seyyid ’Alí’s mule. The mule, finding itself between two fires--the
rock on the one side and the camel on the other--sat down on its
haunches; and my guide, crying out the word, “Astaghferallah,” came a
cropper, striking his head against a stone. The upper portion of his
íhram fell off. “Was it you, Seyyid ’Alí who fell?” cried Sheykh Eissa.
Seyyid ’Alí, all bruised and bleeding, crept from under the mule’s
legs, and picked up his sacred habit. “Astaghferallah!” he replied; “it
was not I who fell. It was my íhram. Unfortunately I happened to be in
it.” A burst of laughter followed and then a shrill scream. “I verily
believe,” said Sheykh Eissa, addressing me, “that your guide would make
a kitten ‘eat a dozen sticks’ if it mispronounced the Arabic letter
‘ain’ in the feline word ‘maou! maou!’”
But I had turned whence the scream had come and made him no reply. My
guide’s mishap, as I saw on looking ahead, had excited the compassion
of a lady in a palanquin. She was a Meccan. No sooner did she see the
blood than she uttered a shriek of deepest commiseration. Then she
recovered herself, and cooed out a couple of orders. Her warmth of
heart was now as evident as had been her emotional susceptibility. In
one breath she summoned her husband and sent him to Seyyid ’Alí with
an offer of a certain famous prescription for wounds and bruises. In
the next she implored her _moghavem_ to ransack on one of the camels a
chest that contained, among other things, a small bottle of scorpion
oil. It was the remedy in question. This is the way it is prepared:
the stings having been extracted, a couple of black scorpions are
dried in the sun, are then put in a bottle holding about half a pint
of castor-oil, and in this they are kept corked up for the space of
a year. The unwilling Arab made demur, pleading that the delay would
inconvenience the pilgrims behind her own caravan; but she reduced
him to obedience with a look. “Be sharp!” she crooned, as he swung
reluctantly on his heel; so sweet was her voice that without another
sign of hesitation he leaped forward to carry out her wishes. The camel
was made to kneel down by the wayside; then the chest was overhauled.
By the time her husband had returned the precious oil was found and
given to him. “Take it,” she said, still gazing in ’Alí’s countenance
over her husband’s shoulder, “and tell him to use it unsparingly lest
the beauty of his face should be ruined.” Meccan gentlewomen allow
themselves a certain freedom of speech and action, otherwise a less
presentable man than this woman’s husband might have been jealous
enough to resent the frank admiration in her voice. Seyyid ’Alí, having
laid on the oil by means of a wooden bodkin used for the purpose,
handed the bottle back to the husband, who pressed him to accept the
rest of its contents, which would be useful, he said, in case of
further accident. My guide, however, refused with many thanks, saying
that he could not find it in his heart to deprive the giver of the
possibility of exercising her compassion on the next unfortunate she
might chance to meet. And with this our respective caravans moved on.
Before reaching the Valley of Mina a serious accident happened, this
time to a Malay pilgrim--an accident that proved fatal to him, for he
was crushed to death in a stampede of mules. I am happy to say that
our own caravan was not concerned in the disaster. Two women swooned
at the sight, and all the other women round about raised their voices
in bitterest lamentation, as though they had lost a near relative.
A quarter of an hour after, when the unfortunate man had been laid
to rest in his shallow grave, the two women who had fainted fell
to prattling merrily as if nothing untoward had occurred. In fact,
the chief characteristics of the Oriental woman are her absolute
helplessness outside the restricted limits of her special sphere of
influence, and the swiftness with which she passes from one emotion
to another. There is no transition in her moods. She passes from the
tearful or the terrible to the mirthful or the ridiculous at a single
bound of her mercurial temperament. She is at once more womanish and
more womanly than her European sisters. Not less marked, on this
journey of ours to the holiest mountain of Islám, were the vanity of
the wealthier classes as it preened itself among the men, and the
unfailing good humour of the mob. A Persian nobleman, to whom my host
had attached himself, had a special chamberlain whose sole duty it was
to hand his lord and master a cigarette whenever he felt disposed to
smoke. Another grandee of the same nationality, if he had occasion to
drop his reins in order to adjust his beard, would cry out at the top
of his voice to his _moghavem_, saying: “Boy, come here! Hand me the
reins!” preserving the while an expression of sphinx-like aloofness
from all human kind.
As for the good temper of the crowd, it was due, I avow, to the
soberness of each and every individual in it. Of drunkenness there
was nothing on the road so far as my experience went, though I am
constrained to admit that a good many pilgrims of my acquaintance had
smuggled along with them a bottle or two of brandy apiece which, as a
safeguard against prying eyes, had been labelled “cholera mixture.”
When I say the mob was sober I only mean that it was not drunk. Its
humour, of course, was individualised. It varied with the character
of the unit. Some of the pilgrims were lively, frivolous, even rowdy
in a playful sort of way, meaning no mischief. These chatted and
chaffed and flirted, killing monotony in many a breach of etiquette.
They being theoretically resigned to the will of Allah, were resolved
in practice to reflect Omnipotence in a merry mood. Others, rapt
and devotional, intoned the holy and instructive Kurán, as they sat
on their camels or limped barefooted over the stony ground. Prayers
were muttered, religious hymns were sung, tears were shed, tales were
told, amid the deafening shouts of the drivers and the lofty orders
of the _moghavems_. Conspicuous in their pastime on the road were the
Bedouins. Either they beguiled the tedium of the march by singing
love-songs that acted like magic on the listeners, or else they showed
that their weariness under restraint was invincible by frequent
salivation. For yawning is almost exclusively a European habit.
Oriental folk rarely yawn in public. If they are bored they give odd
little sham coughs instead, while the Bedouins get rid of their moral
phlegm or call attention to its existence by expectorating. Nor is the
habit regarded even by the most courteous among them as offensive: it
is hallowed by custom. The virtue of politeness is relative. In Great
Britain, for example, the very sound of the word “belch” could only
be described as unspeakable; whereas the act itself in many Eastern
countries breathes grace and gratitude after meat on the part of the
guests. The more often it is repeated by them the better pleased is
their host. Thus it is not in a carping frame of mind that I have
written down whatever in the manners of my co-religionists excited my
quasi-European squeamishness.
Now, the road, before entering the narrow Wadi of Mina, in which a
village stands, narrows into a gap and climbs a flight of stone steps.
There the pilgrims thought it necessary, as, indeed, I suppose it was,
to call a halt, while they performed a two-prostration prayer, and in
the chaos of confusion which arose I was separated from my companions,
or shoved forward by the pressure of the crowd behind me. I was about
to force my way back to them when I caught sight of a young Syrian
girl sitting astride an ass. In the excitement of the moment she had
forgotten to cover her face, and our eyes met. On the instant all
thought of returning left me, for the girl was good to behold. The
caravan she was with numbered about fifty people, and with it I rode
along through the village into the dreary gully beyond. Every now and
then we would glance at each other, the maiden and I. She was shy, and
I was anything but bold, breathing, in her neighbourhood, a spell so
pure. So on we journeyed, side by side, I covertly watching her every
movement, and she playing hide-and-seek with my eyes, until at last I
summoned the courage to smile on her. By chance, or I know not by what
blessing, the smile was returned, and so heartening was its effect on
me that my whole being seemed to throb, “not from one heart, but from a
hundred!” Never was I so near to a complete surrender to love at first
sight. In the meantime the sun was going down behind the mountains in
the west; shopkeepers were busy erecting their booths in readiness for
the return of the Hájj on the Day of Sacrifice; torches were lighted,
casting a lurid glare around; cannons were fired and rockets flung
aloft to announce to the weary pilgrims the hour of evening prayer.
There, in the ruddy light about us and the gathering darkness beyond,
my maiden and I knelt down, obeying the call of the faith, within arm’s
reach of each other. In my heart of hearts I prayed that God would give
me one day a helpmate as sweet as my companion.
Not a word had passed between us, nor did we exchange more than a
glance, when the caravan got under way again. To my dismay there came
along, with furtive tread, an ugly-looking Syrian, barefoot and old,
and entered into conversation with me, placing himself, with an air of
suspicion that nettled, and a look of proprietorship that alarmed me,
between the maiden and myself. I thought that he might be her father,
but he said he was her husband. Instinctively I drew rein, and soon she
was lost to me in the blackness of the night. Caravan after caravan
went by, but there I remained, meditating first on the ways of the
veil-worn sex, and then on my hapless lot, cut off as I was from my
companions, with only a few mejidis in silver in a small bag round my
neck. By and by the moon rose, and I pulled myself together. In truth,
the pangs of a healthy appetite began to clamour for satisfaction,
and so I pressed forward until I reached the top of the valley, which
was simply blocked with pilgrims, all hurrying as fast as they could
go to the Mosque of Khaif. There I alighted, and, leading my mule
by the bridle, made to cross the open space in front, where several
coffee booths offered refreshment; but my obstinate beast would not
budge, pull as I might. Not for nothing do the Easterns call them
“the children of donkeys.” They are certainly more stubborn and more
uncertain than their mothers. Many paupers were hanging about, and any
one of them would have been only too glad to take the mule in tow, but
the danger was that he would run away with it--such cases of theft are
of frequent occurrence on the pilgrimage--and therefore I called to a
booth-keeper asking him to send out his man to take charge of the beast
that I might go and quench my thirst and smoke a pipe at his stall.
Once rid of my stupid burden, I pushed my way into the booth which was
crowded with pilgrims of the poorer classes. My sudden appearance among
them raised not a little astonishment. I fraternised at once with a
needy Bedouin, and together we smoked a pipe of peace. Suddenly a gun
went off outside the booth, the report echoing and re-echoing among the
mountains. “A blood-feud!” cried my companion, leaping to his feet,
then ran out of doors.