Dawn changed to sunset, and the world became alive again. The scenery had altered. We had once more entered the valley of the Khoreiba river, and still the great, bare, rocky mountains rose on either side; but the valley itself was green and fresh, and the banks of the stream, which appeared in places tumbling and dancing over the rocks, again to disappear below the surface, were covered with thick jungle of dense tropical vegetation, the trees hung with garlands of creepers. Birds chirruped and hopped from bough to bough; great painted butterflies sailed by, rivalling the sunrise sky in gorgeousness; and monkeys and apes chattered and grunted on the steep mountain-sides. After the journey of desert and rock, the change was a delightful one. Spying a few female camels grazing in the jungle, we surmised that there must be a Bedouin encampment near, so, alighting from my lofty perch, I set out with a couple of the men to find them—no difficult task, as we came across them within the first half-hour. They had pitched their little mat huts in a natural clearing in the thick vegetation, where they sat idly about, the women carrying firewood and milking the cows, the men, each armed with his dagger and spear, smoking long wooden-stemmed pipes with clay bowls. They received us kindly, and we had soon joined their little circle, and were chatting away as if we had known each other for years. Great laughter was caused by a very elderly female, with buttered hair—rancid butter, if you please—and greasy saffron-dyed cheeks, kissing me. The joke I could not for a time understand; but it finally turned out that the fact that I was clean shaven and in breeches led her to suppose that I was of the female gender, as in the Yemen the men wear loin-cloths and allow their beards to grow on the points of the chin, while the women decorate their lower limbs in tight-fitting trousers. The old hag, on being pointed out her mistake, laughed as much as any; and while I was engaged in scraping the saffron and butter off my blushing cheeks, went off to fetch us a big bowl of fresh goat’s milk. Shouts from our camel-men in the river warned us that we must not remain any longer, so pushing our way through the thick brushwood, we resought the river-bed and mounted once again. [Illustration: _Castle of Amir of Dhala._]