The old man lived with his women in a brushwood hut beside the well, and was scornful of our politics, demanding what more to eat or drink these sore efforts and bloody sacrifices would bring. We gently teased him with notions of liberty; with freedom of the Arab countries for the Arabs. “This Garden, Dhaif-Allah, should it not be your very own?” However, he would not understand, but stood up to strike himself proudly on the chest, crying, “I⁠—I am Kurr.”

He was free and wanted nothing for others: and only his garden for himself. Nor did he see why others should not become rich in a like frugality. His felt skullcap, greased with sweat to the colour and consistence of lead, he boasted had been his grandfather’s, bought when Ibrahim Pasha was in Wejh a century before: his other necessary garment was a shirt, and annually, with his tobacco, he would buy the shirt of the New Year for himself; one for each of his daughters, and one for the old woman⁠—his wife.