THE END OF THE JOURNEY 295 



us to a flat roof, across which we followed our host to 

 a large high room, matted and carpeted, but devoid of 

 furniture. For the first time I Hved in an Arab house 

 which had a view from the windows, for here there was 

 no yard to shut one into a mysterious little world of 

 secluded privacy. From the cross-barred windows with 

 swinging shutters one looked down on the big square 

 and the white figures gossiping round the well or across 

 to the group of our weary camels, literally bulging after 

 their enormous drink, to students seated at the doors of 

 their rooms with Koran and rosary. 



Our host, Sidi Yadem Bu Gemira, one of the im- 

 portant ekhwan, was so anxious to hear the complete 

 story of our journey that he would not leave us before 

 we had drunk sweet coffee, seated on his best carpet, 

 and answered all his questions as to why we had come 

 from Kufara by such a hard route. Before we had 

 satisfied his kindly curiosity, Sidi el Fagil, plump and 

 ebony-faced, with greying moustache, the Imam of the 

 mosque, and other ekhwan, had hurried to visit us. I 

 was so tired I could hardly hold up my head. My nose 

 was bhstered and peeling, my face burning, my eyes 

 watering. I was intensely hungry. Every nerve seemed 

 to be throbbing and aching and, above all, I was conscious 

 of dirt. I felt completely vague as I leaned against the 

 wall and, when a murmur of voices below suggested the 

 possibility of other visits, I basely left Hassanein to 

 entertain the venerable ekhwan and crept down a discreet 

 little stairway to a quaint-shaped room that lurked under 

 one of the innumerable archways, forgotten, I think, 

 by the architect, who must have had a most tortuous 

 mind. It was full of dust and clay, but I felt a little 

 more dirt did not matter, and here I was found by the 

 kindly Yusuf, when the last visitor had gone, fast asleep 

 on Hassanein's grimy jerd. 



