8 THE SECRET OF SAHARA: KUFARA 



A small encampment of some half-dozen tents lay 

 beside our path, so we turned in to see if they would 

 make us tea. At first they refused because I was a 

 Christian. Then a woman in striped red and yellow 

 barracan, with a heavy necklace of carved silver, came 

 out to inspect us. "It is all right," she said to the 

 others. "She is a nice little thing and she has a Moslem 

 with her" — this in appreciation of Hassanein Bey's 

 white brocaded kufiya. They spread a scarlet camel's 

 hair rug for us to sit on, but they were not really con- 

 vinced of our good faith. My companion began asking 

 the men if they had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. 

 "Not yet," siiid the oldest wistfully. "What is written 

 is written. If Allah wills it, I shall go." 



We were rapidly making friends when a fierce-looking 

 individual with a hard weather-beaten face and stern 

 eyes appeared. He carried tea and sugar, but bargained 

 fgr them violently, thinking we were both the scorned 

 Nasrani. When we told him we knew Sayed Idris, he 

 laughed in our faces. "Our lord Idris is travelling," 

 he said. "Would you like to see a letter from him?" 

 I asked. Awe showed on all their faces, and their eyes 

 followed Hassanein Bey's every movement as he pulled 

 out the somewhat crumpled envelope from his pocket. 

 They read the superscription reverently, and then one by 

 one kissed it with passionate earnestness and gravely 

 pressed it to their foreheads. They returned it in com- 

 plete silence. Without a word the atmosphere changed. 

 The fanatic looked at us with humble yearning. The 

 old man's eyes were glazed. We knew that we could 

 have told these three men to get up and follow us to an 

 imknown destination and they would have obeyed with 

 unquestioning, ungrudging faith. "Sidi Idris has gone 

 to visit the King of Italy," I said. "He has been made 

 an Emir." They accepted the statement indifferently. 



