had seen his Lord. There the pilgrims pass the night, and at the hour of morning prayer they say: “O Lord, in obedience to Thy commands, I break my morning at Thy Masher al harám.” Thence they proceed to Mina, through which valley they passed on their road to Arafat, and there the stoning of the devil and the slaying of the sacrifices, two notable “columns” of the pilgrimage, are performed. This is the Youm-ul-Nahre or Day of Sacrifice. On the eve of Youm-ul-Tarvih my friends and I went to stay the night with a Persian grandee who had taken up his lodgings in a large house near the Harem. We will call his name Ardashir Morad Khan. His was in many respects an exceptional character. He had acquired a knowledge of the French tongue without learning to detest the French nation, and had studied the Darwinian theory of the origin of species without aping the European. His conversation was grave and impersonal. He was communicative without being confidential. He never betrayed a trust, nor blabbed his personal secrets. From him I learned all I know of the political situation in Persia; and the Youm-ul-Tarvih was six hours gone--remember, in the East, the day begins and ends with the setting of the sun--ere we closed the debate and flung ourselves down to rest. Morning broke. Ardashir Morad Khan, having performed his ablutions, was saying his prayers, and I was drinking a cup of tea when there came a knock at the door, and a Persian friend of ours rushed into the room. His excitement knew no bounds. He stood bereft of speech from sheer lack of breath; but his face spoke volumes. “Well, Sheykh Eissa,” said I, “what is the news?” Ardashir Morad Khan dropped his rosary and looked up, listening. Sheykh Eissa coughed as if to clear his gorge, and cried-- “My manuscript on the Bedouins is lost; the precious volume has been stolen! For the last seventeen years, as I told you yesterday, I have wandered from tribe to tribe as a talisman-monger in order that I might study the customs and the character of the Bedouins, and give to the world a faithful history of my experiences. I had promised to show you the result of my labour, and now I am constrained by fate to re-shape my impressions. Youm-ul-Tarvih? Wáh! How can my soul repose?”