We rode down wearily to the first naoura and there threw ourselves from our horses. The river turned the wheel, the wheel lifted the water, the water raced down the conduit and spread itself out over a patch of corn and round the roots of a solitary palm-tree, and all happened as if it were a part of the processes of nature, like the springing of the palm tree and the swelling of the ears of corn. But it was nature in leading-strings, and the lords of creation, in a very unassuming guise, surged up from a hole in the ground roofed with palm fronds and bade us welcome to their domain--two men and a little boy who watched over the crops on behalf of a Rawâ merchant. The place has a name, ’Ajmîyeh, and a history, if only I could have deciphered it in the cut stones and fragments of wall which the river slowly washed bare and then washed away. But the immediate present was of greater importance. Before the moon was up, supper was spread by the naoura, and the watchmen, the boy, the Arabs and the old man with the bullet were sharing with my servants and zaptiehs an ample meal of rice. We had marched ten hours. In the morning I saw that quantities of pottery were washed out of the bank together with the stones. Much of it was glazed with black upon the inside, some was the usual coloured Mohammadan stuff, and there were pieces of the big pointed jars, unglazed, which belong to every age. Beyond the corn lay masses of similar potsherds; the river bank must once have been strewn with small villages. When we had ridden for half-an-hour we met three horsemen of the Jerâif, and ’Affân declared that he would return with them to his tents, and as for Murawwaḥ he might cross with us to ’Ânah and go home along the right bank. I had no objection to raise, and as Murawwaḥ did not demur to the scheme ’Affân was allowed to leave us. Murawwaḥ was a small man and a lean, mounted on a half-starved mare, himself half starved, with naked feet, a ragged cotton cloak thrown over his head to protect him from the sun, and a rusty sword by his side to defend him from his enemies. We had struck up a wordless friendship and now that ’Affân was gone we fell into talk. I asked him whether he had heard of liberty. “Eh wah!” he answered, “but we know not what it means.” “It means to obey a just law,” said I, seeking for some didactic definition. But Murawwaḥ knew nothing of obedience nor yet of just rule. The zaptieh ’Abdullah took up my word. “Oh Murawwaḥ,” said he, “when there is liberty in this land, there will be no more raiding and the Arabs will serve as soldiers.” “No wallah!” returned Murawwaḥ firmly. ’Abdullah laughed. “Slowly, slowly,” he said, “the government will lay hands on the desert, and the Arabs will be brought in, for they are all thieves.”