I have heard, him address, with ‘rotund mouth,’ his small boy Faraj, a demon of impudence; yet he is mostly ashamed to scold. This results from his extreme timidity and nervousness. He never appears abroad without the longest of daggers and a two-handed blade fit for Richard of England. He will sleep in an oven rather than open the door when a leopard has been talked of: on board ship he groans like a colicky patient at every ‘lop,’ and a shipped sea brings from his lips the involuntary squeak of mortal agony. In the hour of perfect safety he has a certain quietness of manner and mildly valorous talk which are exceedingly likely to impose. He cannot bear hunger or thirst, fatigue or want of sleep, and until Fate threw him in our way he probably never walked a single consecutive mile. Though owner of a wife, and of three quasi wives, he had been refused by Allah the gift of issue and increase. Possibly the glad tidings that a slave girl was likely to make him a father—he swore that, if a boy, Abdullah should be his name— suddenly communicated to him on his return from our first cruise, caused him to judge my companionship canny, and once more to link his destiny with ours. Saíd bin Sálim is a Bayázi of the Kháriji schism. He prays regularly; fasts uncompromisingly; he chews but will not smoke tobacco; he never casts away a date-stone; and he ‘sips water’ but ‘swills milk’ as the Moslem saying directs. His mother tongue is the Kisawahili: he speaks, however, the grotesque Arabic of Oman, and sometimes, to display his mastery of the humanities, he mixes hashed Koran and terminating vowels with Maskat ‘baragouinage,’ Paradise Lost and Thieves’ Latin. He has read syntax; he writes a pretty hand; he is great at epistles, and he loves to garnish discourse with saw and song. When in the ‘doldrums’ he will exclaim— ‘The grave’s the gate all flesh must pass— Ah! would I knew what lies behind.’ I have heard him crooning for long hours— ‘The knowledge of this nether world, Say, friend, what is it?—false or true? The false, what mortal cares to know?— The true, what mortal ever knew?’ Sometimes he will break out into rather a ‘fast’ strain, e. g.— ‘At Meccah I saw a lass selling perfume, She put forth a hand, and I cried, “O sweet!” (Three sniffs, crescendo.) She leant over me, casting a glance of love, But from Meccah I sped, saying, “Farewell, sweet!”’ (Three Kafir clicks, diminuendo, signifying ‘No go.’)