I handed the rebellious little man a cup of tea. Having taken a sip, he reached out for the sugar. “Your tea is as bitter as mortality,” he said, and straightway converted it into syrup. I recalled a pretty Persian story. “Perhaps,” I replied, “the clay from which the cup was made was once man.” The fancy, though borrowed, restored the Sheykh’s good humour. “It is the burned clay of my thief’s grandfather,” he declared, with a quaint uplifting of his shaggy eyebrows, “or I am an infidel. My precious manuscript--how can to-day be Youm-ul-Tarvih? Assuredly it is the Day of Sacrifice.” Seyyid ’Alí now entered the room. He said: “I have engaged a _moghavem_, what we Persians call a _hamlehdar_; he will be here with his mules and camels at midday; and our tents are even now on their way to the Hill of Arafat, where an aristocratic position has been reserved for them.” “Surely you mean the Valley of Mina?” I asked. “No, no,” broke in our host, Ardashir Morad Khan; “the custom of sleeping at Mina on the outward journey was abolished long ago on account of the delay its observance occasioned, and that for no purpose that would warrant----” Sheykh Eissa leaped to his feet. “I ask pardon of God,” he cried. “Why, the Prophet himself was accustomed to halt at Mina from six hours after sunrise on Youm-ul-Tarvih until sunrise next morning, and there he used to say the five prescribed prayers. Surely that fact alone would warrant our observance of the law?” “Well,” I replied, “I must confess that I am delighted to know that we shall have more roomy quarters for the night. The Valley of Mina is a mere gully. According to my calculation there must be scarcely less than three hundred thousand pilgrims in this city.” “Say four hundred thousand and you will not exaggerate the number,” interrupted our host. “What is your opinion, Sheykh Eissa?” “The pilgrims are innumerable this year, your Excellency. It is not possible to count them. The angels in heaven are not more numerous. Nine years ago the pilgrims outnumbered the present calculation of our distinguished friend. This year Youm-ul-Nahre falls on a Friday, and I am sure there never was before a concourse so great in the City of God.”