THE END OF THE JOURNEY 297 



absent and we curled up our mental antennae with a 

 feeling of complete peace. The little town, so aloof 

 from the world in its secluded wadi, yet the nursery of 

 a great confraternity where still is nourished a force 

 whose influence is felt all along North Africa, wished us 

 well. A very intimate friendliness pervaded the gather- 

 ing in the semi-gloom of the candle-lit room. The 

 wakil's huge beard flowed grey and soft over dark 

 jubba with a many-coloured waistcoat beneath, but ther5 

 was no lavish display of silk or embroidery, because the 

 ekhwan of Jaghabub are more devoted to learning than 

 to luxury. "We are poor men who spend our time in 

 prayer," said one of them with the utmost simi)licity 

 and a dreamy look in his faded old eyes. Their great 

 pride is their qubba, and a reflection for this homage 

 showed in Yusuf's face when, the night of our arrival, 

 just as I had finished scrubbing off the first layer of 

 grime and was wondering if I could decently ask Amar 

 to heat another quart or two of water, he arrived with 

 a guttering candle to suggest that I should go at once 

 to see the sanctuary. "There will be no people there 

 at this hour," he said, but, when we had crossed the 

 starlit square and left our shoes inside the first arcade 

 of the mosque, we heard a low, monotonous chanting 

 coming from the shadows beyond the great white court! 

 It was in keeping with the solemn spirit of the night 

 and the scene and the proud happiness in Yusuf's face, 

 as he led me through long, dim ways which he trod 

 unfaltering, back again in imagination in his boyhood's 

 days, when perhaps he had been as earnest and devout 

 a learner as the grave-faced students who passed us in 

 the square. 



Through a fine carved and painted door we passed 

 into the mosque, very quiet, white and dignified, the 

 dark carpets on the floor the only rich note to break 



