Upon the corner stood a whitewashed shrine, pink in the glow of sunset, the crescent flashing on its egg-like dome; beside it a great tree under whose foliage a crowd of men were sitting out on stools, smoking and drinking coffee in the shade. Some of these took notice of her, pointing rudely, attracting the attention of the others and the passersby. Supposing something wrong with her attire, she quickened step. Her road ran through a village. She heard shouts and laughter. A well-dressed man strode past her from behind, and turning searched her eyes. Spurred now by fear, she tried to hurry on; but found herself the centre of a crowd, whose members, moving with her, jabbered, pointed, jeered. One tweaked her habbarah; another seized her arm as if to feel the muscle. Her heart beat loud, her throat was choked with sobs repressed by terror.

The mob grew every moment bolder in its menace. A stalwart peasant-woman barred the way before her, grinning⁠—prepared, it seemed, to pluck away her mouth-veil.