bravery of targe, spear and dagger. Some of the women would be pretty did they not resemble the men in their scowling, Satanic expression of countenance: they are decidedly en deshabille, but a black skin always appears a garb. The cantonment is surrounded by asses, camels and a troupe of native Flibertigibbets, who dance and jump in astonishment whenever they see me: "The white man! the white man!" they shriek; "run away, run away, or we shall be eaten[1]!" On one occasion, however, my amour propre was decidedly flattered by the attentions of a small black girl, apparently four or five years old, who followed me through the streets ejaculating "Wa Wanaksan!"—"O fine!" The Badawin, despite their fierce scowls, appear good-natured; the women flock out of the huts to stare and laugh, the men to look and wonder. I happened once to remark, "Lo, we come forth to look at them and they look at us; we gaze at their complexion and they gaze at ours!" A Badawi who understood Arabic translated this speech to the others, and it excited great merriment. In the mining counties of civilized England, where the "genial brickbat" is thrown at the passing stranger, or in enlightened Scotland, where hair a few inches too long or a pair of mustachioes justifies "mobbing," it would have been impossible for me to have mingled as I did with these wild people.
We must return before sunset, when the gates are locked and the keys are carried to the Hajj, a vain precaution, when a donkey could clear half a dozen places in the town wall. The call to evening prayers sounds as we enter: none of my companions prays,[2] but all when
