“If the cholera fiend should not drive us hence in search of refuge,” I interpolated. “The epidemic is on the increase. The sacrifices slain, we shall be only too glad to make good our escape to the sea.” “True,” said Seyyid ’Alí, grimly, “if the cholera fiend should not choose for us an underground route to a city of eternal rest! If it please God, I shall conduct your Excellency to Jiddah so soon as the sun shall set on Youm-ul-Nahre. For I have no wish to fall a victim to the fell disease, Sheykh Eissa.” With the foregoing words my guide bade us good-bye and went about his business in my service. He came back, however, almost immediately. “May it please your Excellency,” he said, addressing Ardashir Morad Khan, “Khalil is fallen sick of the cholera and is even now at the point of death.” Now, Khalil was our host’s steward and had set out for the Hill of Arafat in charge of the tents and baggage. Ardashir Morad Khan looked extremely grave. “God have mercy on his soul!” he cried. Then, “Where is he now?” he asked; “and who has taken his place?” Seyyid ’Alí replied that the man had been brought back on a bier to Mecca, and was then lying in a cellar attached to the kitchen of the house in which we were. A panic would have followed this statement had not our host cried out in a voice of sternest command: “I must request you all to be calm. We must set the servants an example of courage. Are we not the slaves of God?... Well, Seyyid ’Alí, who has taken over the control of our caravan?” “The cook of your Excellency’s household,” replied my guide, “assumed the direction of affairs. I have done my best to restore the confidence of your Excellency’s household. The servants need a firm hand to keep them from running away.” So Ardashir Morad Khan left the room, and when he came back I requested permission to see the sick man. The other guests, who were sitting round the room with their backs to the walls, jumped up at once and made a low bow to me as I passed by to the servant’s quarters. The Meccan houses are generally lower than the surface of the street without, and when this is the case a flight of stone steps leads from the first floor into the court round which the apartments range. I found Khalil in the cellar. He was sinking fast. Nobody had dared to stay with him. His eyes were dried up in the sockets and blackened all round the rims. Not an ounce of flesh remained on his body. The stench was unendurable. The bearers, having stretched his legs in the direction of the Ka’bah and given him a cup of sour milk wherewith to quench his thirst, had gone away, leaving him a prey to the fell disease. Compassion rent my heart, but I could do nothing: remedy I had none. I saw, moreover, that he was too far gone to recover, and, indeed, scarcely was he aware of my presence than his new-born hope was strangled by death. “Yá--Allah!” he muttered, and that was the last time he drew breath. Having rejoined my host, I went with him into the city.