of meeting again. When we first went to visit him, this charming lady and Khalid and I, we had to knock at the door until his neighbour peered from one of the windows above and told us that the Sheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we must come in the evening. I learned afterwards that he, reversing the habitual practice of mankind, works at night and sleeps during the day.
“We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with a lamp in his hand, peers through a small square opening in the door to see who is knocking. He knew neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry—‘Eigh!’ he mused. And as he beheld her face in the lamplight he exclaimed ‘ Marhaba (welcome)! Marhaba! ’ and hastened to unbolt the door.
We are shown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small court, up to his study. Which is a three-walled room—a sort of stage—opening on the court, and innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair.
While he and Mrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian, I was wondering why in Damascus, the city of seven rivers and of poetry and song, should there be a court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated fountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the Sheikh can not tolerate the noise of the water; and so, suffering from thirst and neglect, the fountain goes to ruin.
“On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of old books and pamphlets; in the corner is the usual straw mat, a cushion, and a sort of stool on which are ink and paper. This he clears, places the cushion upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits down on the mat; and we are invited to arrange for ourselves some books. Indeed, the Sheikh is right; most of these tomes are good for nothing else.
“ Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.
“ ‘Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,’ said he to Khalid; ‘that is ominous. Verily, there is danger in thy path.’