What a night it was! One of those nights in a lifetime which can never be forgotten. The cool dim light of the swinging alabaster lamps, the flashing spears heaped together in the corners, the wonderful dark crowd of swarthy men, the steam of the brewing coffee issuing from strange jars, the rich dark carpets and gaudy cushions, the murmur and the blue curling smoke of the pipes—ay, a dinner-party in Dhamar is worth seeing! And then the soft music and singing of the musicians, whose tall beautiful figures moved slowly here and there as they played strange melodies! It seemed like some dream:—no wild African feast, merely the echo of the long-past glories of Arabia! Then they brought us great dishes heaped with food, for the most part our old friend the antiquated goat, and we dipped our fingers into copper bowls of rose-water and ate together. Then coffee and pipes, and the bitter herb _kat_, and music and dancing. And the cool night air blew in through the windows and sent the filmy smoke circling here and there, and now and again ruffled the raven locks of one or other of our guests, who lay recumbent and silent, expressionless and beautiful, listening to the tales of love that our musicians, with strange monotonous dancing, sang to the strains of their painted guitars. We were back again in the days of Haroun el-Rashid, and all the hurry and scurry of modern life seemed lost and gone. At length I brought out my electric machine, and, the guests joining hands, felt, for the first time in their lives, a shock. They smiled, and asked for more. Then one was brave enough to hold the handles by himself. I turned it on full, and fairly whizzed the wheels round. With a scream the man jumped into the air, and then apologised. Silently, one by one, our guests arose, and shaking me by the hand with the compliments the Arab knows so well how to bestow, bade me good-night. Then, taking their spears in their hands, they walked slowly to the door, until fairly outside, when they flew down the stairs at a pace that was positively dangerous, and from the window I could see them tearing down the street at a break-neck run. Such was the effect of a small electric machine at a Dhamar dinner-party. The following morning we paid a visit to the tombs of the family of a Turkish general, Ahmed Rushti Pasha, who had himself fallen near Lohaya in the beginning of the rebellion. The enclosed garden, with its mosque and tombs, tells of a sad story, for the family of Ahmed Rushti were assassinated by their house being blown up with gunpowder some few years since. However, as the story is to be found in the chapter on the Yemen rebellion, I shall not refer to it more particularly here. The tombs are situated without the city, on the west side. An acre or two of land are enclosed with high walls, in which stands a summer-house, where the bereaved Pasha was wont to come and sit; but this, like the tombs themselves, was sacked by the Arabs during the