On the 12th of December we were ready for our departure, and on the 13th we took our leave, the sultan having given us an order, or teskera, on all the towns of Fezzan, for every thing we might stand in need of. The cold of Mourzuk had pinched us all terribly; and notwithstanding we used an additional blanket, both day and night, one of us had colds, and swelled necks, another ague, and a third, pains in the limbs—all, I believe, principally from the chillness of the air; yet the thermometer, at sunrise, was not lower than 42° and 43°. On the 18th we reached Sebha, and found our old friend, sheikh Abdallah-ben-Shibel, whose hospitality we had before experienced; with abundance of kouskousou and meat, with highly peppered broth, prepared for us. The daughter of my friend Abdallah, who was now married, and a mother, and to whom I had two years before given a very simple medicine but once, which she was convinced had cured her of the jaundice, sent me two very pretty straw fans for the flies; they were made of the date leaf, in diamonds, coloured red, black, and yellow; the red is produced by _foor_, or madder root; the yellow with dried onion leaves, steeped in water; and the black by _nil_, or indigo. At Sebha, Timinhint, and Zeghren, we were fed with the best produce of their _cuisine_. Omul Hena, by whom I was so much smitten on my first visit to this place, was now, after a disappointment by the death of her betrothed, with whom she had read the fatah just before my last visit, only a wife of three days old. The best dish, however, out of twenty which the town furnished, came from her; it was brought separately, inclosed in a new basket of date leaves, which I was desired to keep; and her old slave who brought it inquired, “Whether I did not mean to go to her father’s house, and _salaam_, salute, her mother?” I replied, “Certainly;” and just after dark the same slave came to accompany me. We found the old lady sitting over a handful of fire, with eyes still more sore, and person still more neglected, than when I last saw her. She however hugged me most cordially, for there was nobody present but ourselves: the fire was blown up, and a bright flame produced, over which we sat down, while she kept saying, or rather singing, “_Ash harlek? Ash ya barick-che fennick?_”—“How are you? How do you find yourself? How is it with you?” in the patois of the country, first saying something in _Ertana_, which I did not understand, to the old slave; and I was just regretting that I should go away without seeing Omul-hena, while a sort of smile rested on the pallid features of my hostess, when in rushed the subject of our conversation. I scarcely knew her at first, by the dim light of the palm wood fire; she however threw off her mantle, and, kissing my shoulder (an Arab mode of salutation), shook my hand, while large tears rolled down her fine features. She said “she was determined to see me, although her father had refused.”