Aynterad, an inconsiderable place lying east-north-east of, and about forty miles from, Berberah, is a favourite roadstead principally on account of its water, which rivals that of Siyaro. The anchorage is bad: the Shimal or north wind sweeps long lines of heavy wave into the open bay, and the bottom is a mass of rock and sand-reef. The fifty sunburnt and windsoiled huts which compose the settlement, are built upon a bank of sand overlying the normal limestone: at the time when I visited it, the male population had emigrated _en masse_ to Berberah. It is principally supported by the slave trade, the Arabs preferring to ship their purchases at some distance from the chief emporium. [26] Lieut. Herne, when he visited it, found a considerable amount of "black bullion" in the market. The fort of Aynterad, erected thirty years ago by Mohammed Diban, is a stone and mud house square and flat-roofed, with high windows, an attempt at crenelles, and, for some reason intelligible only to its own Vitruvius, but a single bastion at the northern angle. There is no well, and the mass of huts cluster close to the walls. The five guns here deposited by Sharmarkay when expelled from Berberah, stand on the ground outside the fort, which is scarcely calculated to bear heavy carronades: they are unprovided with balls, but that is a trifle where pebbles abound. Moreover, Abdy's slaves are well armed with matchlock and pistol, and the Bedouin Tul Jailah [27] find the spear ineffectual against stone walls. The garrison has frequently been blockaded by its troublesome neighbours, whose prowess, however, never extended beyond preliminaries. To allay my impatience, that morning I was invited into several huts for the purpose of drinking sour milk. A malicious joy filled my soul, as about noon, the Machiavellian Captain of the "Reed" managed to cast anchor, after driving his crazy craft through a sea which the violent Shimal was flinging in hollow curves foam-fringed upon the strand. I stood on the shore making signs for a canoe. My desires were disregarded, as long as decency admitted. At last, about 1 P.M., I found myself upon the quarter-deck. "Dawwir el farman,"--shift the yard!--I shouted with a voice of thunder. The answer was a general hubbub. "He surely will not sail in a sea like this?" asked the trembling Captain of my companions. "He will!" sententiously quoth the Hammal, with a Burleigh nod. "It blows wind--" remonstrated the Rais. "And if it blew fire?" asked the Hammal with the air _goguenard_, meaning that from the calamity of Frankish obstinacy there was no refuge.