But as he mused in the shade, uttering an occasional “Alms, alms, in the name of Allah!” as one or another of the faithful entered or left the mosque, there came from the direction of the Jiddah gate, the regular khat-bearing camel route, shrill cries and yells. Looking up now, he saw a crowd of boys racing toward the town, shouting as they ran: “Al khat aja!” (the khat has come), a thing which of itself boded something unusual—a marriage or special feast of some kind, for at this late hour for what other reason would khat be brought? The market was closed; the chewers of khat already in their mabrazes. From somewhere also, possibly in the house of a bridegroom, came the faint tunk-a-lunk of a tom-tom, which now seemed to take up the glad tidings and beat out its summons to the wedding guests. “Bismillah! What means this?” commented the old beggar to himself, his eyes straining in the direction of the crowd; then folding his rags about him he proceeded to limp in the direction of the noise. At the turn of a narrow street leading into the square his eye was gladdened truly enough by the sight of a khat-bearing camel, encompassed by what in all likelihood, and as he well knew was the custom on such occasions, a cloud of “witnesses” (seekers of entertainment or food at any feast) to the probable approaching marriage. Swathed round the belly of the camel as it came and over its load of dripping green herbs, was laid a glorious silken cloth, blazing with gold and hung with jasmine sprays; and though tom-toms thumped and fifes squealed a furious music all about him, the solemn beast bore his burden as if it were some majesty of state. “By Allah,” observed the old beggar wearily yet eyeing the fresh green khat with zest, “that so much joy should be and I have not a pice, let alone an anna! Would that I might take a spray—that one might fall!” “Friend,” he ventured after a moment, turning to a water-carrier who was standing by, one almost as poor as himself if more industrious, “what means this? Has not Ramazan passed and is not Mohorrum yet to come?” “Dost thou address me, thou bag of bones?” returned the carrier, irritated by this familiarity on the part of one less than himself. “Sahib,” returned the beggar respectfully, using a term which he knew would flatter the carrier, no more entitled to a “Sir” than himself, “use me not ill. I am in sore straits and weak. Is it for a marriage or a dance, perhaps?” “Thou hast said,” replied the carrier irritably, “—of Zeila, daughter of old Bhori, the tin-seller in the bazaar, to Abdul, whose father is jemidar of chaprassies at the burra bungalow.”