FEASTS m THE HOLY PLACE 201 



order tactfully to brush the antennae of business, I com- 

 plimented Hassanein on the thoroughness with which 

 he had assimilated the grave, aloof dignity of a Sheikh 

 el-Alim. He looked at me blankly. "It is not dignity. 

 It is torpor!" he said. 



Of course, there were other moments in the day. 

 The most delightful little person about nine years old 

 came to see us after we returned from the kaimakaan's 

 morning feast. He had the largest and most velvety 

 brown eyes, surrounded by a thick fringe of curly lashes, 

 with a faint shadow of kohl to accentuate their beauty. 

 A prince and the son of a prince, little Sidi Omar had 

 all the dignity of his race. He was garbed in a long 

 purple silk jelabia, opening over a rose-coloured 

 embroidered jubba, while his little pale face was framed 

 in a miniature white kufiya under a purple tarboush. 

 He insisted on accompanying us as we wandered round 

 the sacred village, giving us grave advice. "Sitt Khadija, 

 cover your face now," he would say as the snowy trap- 

 pings of a bulky ekhwan appeared at an unsuspected 

 door, or "Sidi Ahmed Bu Hassanein, you must salute 

 So-and-so; he is the son of So-and-so." 



From the edge of the cliff, where the last houses 

 almost overhung the steep descent, there was a glorious 

 view of the whole wadi. One could stroll east of Taj 

 and look across pale sands, broken by green of barley 

 and wheat, to the lake amidst palms and the narrow 

 end of the valley where the hills close in. One could 

 gaze straight south over the Sayed's gardens to the solid 

 walls of Jof rising in tiers on slight mounds with the 

 famous ancient zawia standing a little apart and in the 

 far distance the line of Zuruk's palms, where a wide 

 break in the guardian dunes gave a glimpse of flatter 

 sands. To the west the view was limited only by one's 

 eyesight. A few large isolated houses lay beside the great 



