I found Aminé sitting patiently on her mat with a row of little heaps of caterpillars spread before her, and I feared that her speculation had failed. She brightened up when she saw me, and beckoned me to her side. “Thou hast been a long time, my Yúsufu,” said she, laying her hand fondly on my arm. “My caterpillars are nearly all gone. See! we are quite rich,” and she proudly displayed a pile of _kurdi_ that was hidden beneath her bag. “I shall not sell any more now, I think,” she continued, “for it is getting dark, and the people are going home. Hast thou found us a place to sleep in, where we can get some food?” I told her of my appointment with the musician and the proposal he had made, on which she pursed up her lips rather doubtfully. “We can hear what the fellow says,” she said; “and thou knowest what is best to do better than I. But these minstrels are a worthless set of vagabonds as a rule.” However, she put the caterpillars back into her bag, and, bidding me take up the heap of _kurdi_, rolled up her mat and followed me. We found the minstrel waiting by the door of the mosque, looking out for us with some eagerness, and when we came up he regarded Aminé with undisguised admiration. “Thou art a lucky fellow to have such a handsome wife,” said he. “Not but that thou art a proper fellow thyself. But come and let us see if we can find thee a place to sleep in.” I noticed that Aminé appeared to relish the man’s compliments as little as I did, but we walked after him, as there seemed nothing else to do. Our conductor, who seemed to know the place well, led us through a maze of foul-smelling alleys until we came to a high mud wall, in which was a doorway closed by a gate of palm leaf. Entering through this, we found ourselves in a spacious but dirty compound, in the middle of which a Wongára woman was attending to some cooking pots, assisted by her two daughters. The women rose from the fire and stared at us inquisitively, and when our acquaintance had explained who we were, the elder woman shouted gruffly to her husband, who at that moment emerged from the house. “This is my countryman, Osumánu Wongára,” said our friend, introducing us, “a most excellent man and my trusted friend.” “Spare thy compliments, and tell me who these people are,” growled Osumánu, looking at us sourly enough. “They are friends of mine who would lodge in thy house, most worthy and respectable people, my brother,” replied the minstrel suavely. “Then they are not like most of thy friends,” retorted the other; “but they can have a room if they are able to pay for it.” “I should not come to the house of a stranger if I could not pay,” said I stiffly. “Thou wouldst not remain long if thou didst,” he replied pleasantly. “How much wilt thou give for a room?” “Show me the room,” I said.