A RIDE TO BABYLON. 355 



cumbers, and of piloff (whose rice is largely mottled 

 with boiled raisins and cinnamon), disappear like 

 misty valley clouds before a midday sun. During 

 the day, if you are a sensible man, you keep quiet, 

 sheltered in these subterranean chambers from the 

 fierce glow of noon by kindly mother earth. If you 

 are otherwise, you roam about seeking a cooler place, 

 but finding none. You are lured perhaps to the 

 banks of the stream, where a reed-built room the 

 technical name of which I never could pronounce, so 

 will not hazard reputation by writing sprinkled con- 

 stantly with water, holds out a tempting refuge. 

 There is something pleasant in the sound of the rush- 

 ing stream close beside you, and in the noise of the 

 constant splashing of water on the reeds the walls, 

 as it were, of the room ; but the thermometer stands 

 considerably higher than in the house, and flies, as of 

 those of the plague of Egypt, beset you, and give you 

 not a moment's peace of body or mind. During these 

 midday hours, should you be unfortunately abroad, 

 wandering with restless spirit, you will find no sym- 

 pathising Turk about. In the doorways and in the 

 passages you will stumble across the prostrate bodies 

 of cavasses and turbaned menials by the score ; but 

 they give no signs of life, and for all the assistance 

 they are likely to give you in your distress, you might 

 as well be among the petrified worshippers of the great 

 Xardoun. 



But there is an occasion on which all these appar- 



