The guide smiled. “There is no stain, however vile, but money shall blot it out. Would that I were a rich man!” “Thou fool,” I cried, “how about the stain of superstition? Will money wipe it out, think you?” “Yá-Moulai,” he whispered, “speak low.... Listen. It is easier to dig the heart out of a mountain with the sharp end of a needle than to remove ignorance from the mind of a mullá. However, the Course of Perseverance has yet to be trod. Come let us hop and be of good courage, for to-morrow we must go in procession to Arafat. We must begin again with Niyyat; that is, with a declaration of intention in front of the Black Stone, and after that we must proceed to Safá, and say our prayers there.” “I ask pardon of Allah!” I shrilled. “Look, the people will be trodden under foot near the Black Stone!” The guide was silent, his eyes were turned to where the crowd was thickest. “Look,” he said, “a man is down. They are trampling him to death. That has often happened. In 581 of the Hegira no less than eighty-four men were trodden to death inside the Ka’bah. In 972 of the Flight sixty-five men were suffocated through the pressure of the crowd in the Harem itself.... Praise Allah, the man is up again.... See, his friends are bearing him to a place of safety.” ... God of love, what a sight! “He has achieved merit,” said the guide, “except, it may be, in the eyes of the ‘mother of his children.’ She will cease to love him when she sees him. However, he may die, and thus she may be spared the shock of--did you--but what have I done to offend you?” My reply was curt. “I find your levity somewhat tedious,” I said impatiently. The wag was irrepressible. He waxed argumentative suddenly, affirming that the snares of the heart are beauty of face and charm of voice. He bade me to look on his own manly countenance. I might believe it or not, but even he had been deceived more than once. What chance of keeping love, therefore, had the wretch whose face had been stamped as flat as the palm of his hand? “Listen, and I will hum you a song,” he whispered, “but it must be low, since it concerns the heart, the theme of the poets, and not the soul, which is the concern of the priests. For my part I am on the side of the poets. Even in Mecca. The song is old. It was sung by Adam in the Garden of Eden after the Fall. I have found it true. Therefore, and for no other reason, it is worth quoting-- “‘Oh, heart of mine, how often canst thou trace Thy aching wounds to one bright maiden’s Face! How often must, amid discordant din, Another’s Voice be toned to take you in! “‘Yet ah, my heart, among thy darling foes, Was one that matched both Nightingale and Rose; A Flow’r, she bloomed a day; a Bird, her flight She winged ... and turned thy Day to endless Night.’”