Then the Mohammedan grandee is interesting, with his finely chiselled features and tall form robed in a long, coloured, embroidered silk and satin gown of great value, whilst round his head, wound in graceful folds, is a soft white scarf of the finest cambric. The costume of the coolie woman from India, who sells fruit, is a picture; it consists of bright-hued handkerchiefs draped in the shape of a divided skirt on her small figure, a low-necked, sleeveless waist, over which is thrown a velvet low-necked, sleeveless jacket, cut short under the arms, trimmed with golden braid and dangling ornaments. Her small bare ankles are ornamented with solid silver anklets; bangles are on her arms above the elbow; there is a gold ring through the nose, and earrings around the edges of the ears. The rings adorn a dusky face, which has eyes that reflect the warmth of the atmosphere and is crowned by a wealth of jet-black hair, glossy as the raven's wing. The whole makes a picture for the painter's brush. The holy woman who has made a pilgrimage to Mecca is seen with her head and face covered, leaving only the eyes free to gaze upon the things of the world. These odd people, through their contrast to the quiet Dutchman, make the town look as if in holiday attire. CHAPTER SEVEN. No matter in which direction one goes, the great Table Mountain, at the foot of which Cape Town is built, makes its presence _felt_. You cannot look along a street without seeing it; it is the first object that meets the gaze on rising and the last impression the drowsy brain relinquishes at night. It is a fine old mountain, rising sheer from the sea in an almost perpendicular wall above the first slope on which the town is built to a height of 3,852 feet. Its summit is cut off perfectly square, thus suggesting its name. It is four miles long and is very often crowned with a huge white cloud that slowly rises like a vapour from the other side, and then gradually settles over the top of the mountain, hanging like a tablecloth on it. This always brings with it a storm of wind and sand or rain that can be heard shrieking and tearing down the mountain-side, while the town lies in sultry heat and silence. This cloud is almost like a barometer to the residents. When asked if there will be a storm, the questioned one will quietly look at Table Mountain and will tell you the strength of the storm that may be coming by the size of the tablecloth on the mountain. It rises and falls like a veil of steam. The moon clearly defining the outline of the mountain with its vapour-covered summits on glorious nights with the bluest of skies above, the wind thundering down its sides, screaming and filling the ear with strange sounds, and the sea rolling in and breaking at its base, make a grand scene.