The gloomy effect increased as the evening came on. Although the sky above us was still streaked with the radiance of the setting sun, we in the gorge caught only its barest reflection, and a deep purple gloom seemed to settle over everything. At one spot by a deep pool in the rock a caravan was settling in for the night. The wild cries and singing of the Arabs, and the groaning of the camels as they were being unladen, added much to the weird effect of their already lit camp-fires, by the light of which we could catch glimpses of the wild fellows as they hurried to and fro, spears in hand, preparing for the night. However, we did not stop, but with an exchange of “Salaam âlikoum,”[36] passed on into the night. The darkness was complete, but the uneven state of the ground and the constant ups-and-downs in the path clearly demonstrated that we had left the river-bed, and were crossing country at right angles apparently to the streams and nullahs, judging by the constant ascents and descents. A few hours later we caught glimpses of fires in the jungle, and one of the Bedouins creeping on ahead and exchanging a few remarks with the camel-men who were spending the night there, he called to me to proceed, and glad I was to cry to my camel to lie down, and a few minutes later to stretch myself on my carpet before a fire, in the camp of an Arab caravan, at a spot called Zaida. The villages in this part of the Yemen are few and far between, and what there are belong almost entirely to wandering tribes of Bedouins, who are here to-day and who knows where to-morrow; so that the caravans passing up and down the rough track that leads into the interior have to camp where best they can, regardless of the whereabouts of humankind, being dependent upon their own resources for food and fodder.