Soon after leaving the bookseller’s, being in need of rest and refreshment, we entered a coffee-house which was literally filled with a crowd of pilgrims of every nationality in the East. Conspicuous in flowing abás with white and yellow stripes were two Sheykhs, who were sitting on stools at a low table, and with them I entered into conversation, offering them a cup of coffee each. The elder, a man of about forty-five, belonged to the tribe of Beni Súbh, while his companion, who was many years younger, owed allegiance to the tribe of Owf; consequently, both of them were members of the fighting clan of Harb Bedouins, who either live in tents about two stages from Mecca, on the road to Medina, or reside, if they are settled Arabs, in the towns of Rabegh, Safrá, and Fará. Of all the tribes of Harb none is more dreaded by the pilgrims than that of Owf, more particularly are they feared by the caravans that travel between the two holy cities. Their power and bravery are undeniable, as was clearly proved during the Wahhábí invasion of Hejaz. Closely allied to them are the tribes of Beni Amere and Zobeid. The young Sheykh, with whom I now struck up an acquaintance, declared that the Owf, with all their shortcomings, could teach moral lessons to the rest of the clan, and he attributed their predatory habits to the “overboiling spirit that was in them.” He contradicted the report that his tribe had robbed forty Persian pilgrims of their belongings between Heddah and Mecca, and had murdered three Syrians between Medina and the Prophet’s birthplace. He professed strong attachment to the person of the Sheríf, and expressed the hope that we would live to see the union of every tribe of Arabia under his sway; in fact, he was a true patriot, frank of speech, of engaging manners, and showing no signs of lawless violence. Not less courteous was his companion. On hearing that he was a Sheykh of Beni Sobh I asked him if he would tell me something about the famous balsam of Mecca, for I had read that the amyris-tree, which exudes this fragrant juice, grows on the mountain of Jébélé-Sobh, between the towns of Rabegh and Bedre. He was good enough to comply with my request, being a connoisseur on the subject. The trees, Bishon, as he called them, have a straight stem, and grow to the height of about twelve feet. In the middle of summer incisions are made by the women in the soft bark with a special kind of knife, whereon a white juice oozes out, and this the women collect with the thumb-nails of their right hands, and put into a sheepskin or into a vessel of burnished copper. The balsam, if the incisions are made later in the season, takes on a yellowish colour, and loses a good deal of its virtue as a tonic.