Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches, and gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin had assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an unspoken retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn farce--a dream from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland, also coatless, sat on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and began to carve it vigorously, looking up as Barry entered. It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this sun-baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out of place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the table. He wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun helmet. He was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the _Scarabæus_ family which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his soup. “Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our new quarters?” “First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair. “If we go on in this style we shan’t starve.” Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and: “There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these fellows are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so Danbazzar informs me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than water.” The soup dispatched: “Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,” said John Cumberland. Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the _wâdi_, suspiciously like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The glistening, smiling face of Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected light. He smiled as he cooked and sang soft Arab love songs. Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony cane, Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of the chef. At the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a great distance it seemed to come--above and beyond--a rhythmic, silvery jingling. He had just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,” when Hassan turned toward him and raised his hand in warning. Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly. Ebon shadows lay in the _wâdi_; above, on crags and terraces of the mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been justified. Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry stood, silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel bells! High above on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its way from Thebes to Farshût.… After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of war, seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan es-Sugra attended.