[p.228] pilgrimage lasted, said they, no mal de pays came to trouble them; but, its excitement over, they could think of nothing but their wives and children. Long-drawn faces and continual sighs evidenced nostalgia. At last the house became a scene of preparation. Blue chinaware and basketed bottles of Zemzem water appeared standing in solid columns, and pilgrims occupied themselves in hunting for mementoes of Meccah; ground-plans; combs, balm, henna, tooth-sticks; aloes-wood, turquoises, coral, and mother-o’-pearl rosaries; shreds of Kiswah-cloth and fine Abas, or cloaks of camels’-wool. It was not safe to mount the stairs without shouting “Tarik” (Out of the way!) at every step, on peril of meeting face to face some excited fair.[FN#2] The lower floor was crowded with provision-vendors; and the staple article of conversation seemed to be the chance of a steamer from Jeddah to Suez. Weary of the wrangling and chaffering of the hall below, I had persuaded my kind hostess, in spite of the surly skeleton her brother, partially to clear out a small store-room in the first floor, and to abandon it to me between the hours of ten and four. During the heat of the day clothing is unendurable at Meccah. The city is so “compacted together” by hills, that even the Samum can scarcely sweep it; the heat reverberated by the bare rocks is intense, and the normal atmosphere of an Eastern town communicates a faint lassitude to the body and irritability to the mind. The houses being unusually strong and well-built, might by some art of thermantidote be rendered cool enough in the hottest weather: [p.229] they are now ovens.[FN#3] It was my habit to retire immediately after the late breakfast to the little room upstairs, to sprinkle it with water, and to lie down on a mat. In the few precious moments of privacy notes were committed to paper, but one eye was ever fixed on the door. Sometimes a patient would interrupt me, but a doctor is far less popular in Al-Hijaz than in Egypt. The people, being more healthy, have less faith in physic: Shaykh Mas’ud and his son had never tasted in their lives aught more medicinal than green dates and camel’s milk. Occasionally the black slave-girls came into the room, asking if the pilgrim wanted a pipe or a cup of coffee: they generally retired in a state of delight, attempting vainly to conceal with a corner of tattered veil a grand display of ivory consequent upon some small and innocent facetiousness. The most frequent of my visitors was Abdullah, the Kabirah’s eldest son. This melancholy Jacques had joined our caravan at Al-Hamra, on the