"From the last-mentioned place we crossed the Red Sea once more for the purpose of putting in for a few moments at Yambo, in Arabian territory, a species of holy land, where Mussulman fanaticism reigns supreme in full force, for, alas! holy land in these parts is only another name for a spot given over entirely to every description of intolerance and barbarism. "From Yambo we followed the coast as far Djiddah, where, as I have already told you, I am at this moment writing to you. Djiddah, the tour of which place I have just made, consists of an immense street filled with bazaars, where are displayed the products of our own manufacture side by side with samples of Eastern taste. The markets, specially devoted to satisfying the appetite or voracity of the pilgrims to Mecca, are exceedingly curious. In them you see piled up together the fruits and vegetables gathered in Africa and Asia, and conveyed hither by ships or caravans; heaps of water melons, cocoa-nuts, dates, yams, sweet potatoes and chick-peas. On long tables are also ranged pyramids of honey-combs and bowls of couscoussoo, the favourite dish of Arabia. "These market-halls and places, and the bazaars are crowded with Turks, Egyptians, Indians and Africans, to say nothing of dogs, horses and camels, the latter appearing quite dazed in the midst of all the coming and going, the babel of sounds, and the multitude of things, and picking their steps as if they were afraid of breaking something. Women ventured fearlessly into this crowd, and young Arab girls, very pretty, though often very thin—I mean to say very pretty, because they were so slender—walked to and fro gravely, with uncovered faces, shoulder to shoulder with the hermetically-veiled Turkish women, whose large slippers of yellow leather gave them a shuffling gait. Other Turkish women, of a higher class, passed by here and there, attended by eunuchs and mounted on donkeys. * * * * * "Oh! my dear Emily, what an awful calamity, what a terrible misfortune, has befallen us! M. de Morin is lost to us—M. de Morin, the life and soul of our party, has fallen a victim to his own temerity. "If you only knew—it is frightful—to die at his age—I must leave you— I am going at once with Madame de Guéran to the French Consulate." CHAPTER XXIII. The fears of Miss Poles were only too well founded; if M. de Morin still lived, and there were grave reasons for doubting it, he was in very great danger.