Amid such scenes we paddled and poled till the setting sun spread its cloak of purple over a low white cliff, upon whose feet the ripple broke and on whose head lingered venerable trees that stood out from the underwood of the lower banks. Here lies the Pir of Wasin, a saint described by our Baloch guide as a ‘very angry, holy man’ (bará jabrá Pir). A Sherif of pure strain, he gallantly headed, in times long gone by, his Moslem followers flying from Panga-ni, when it was attacked by a ravenous herd of heathenry. The infidels seem to have had the advantage in running: they collared the Faithful at these cliffs, and would have made mince-meat of them, when Mother Hertha, at the prayer of the Pir, opened wide and received them in her bowels. This Shaykh will not allow the trees to be felled or the floods to rise above the level of his grave: moreover, if the devotee, after cooking food at the tomb in honour of its tenant, venture to lick his fingers—the usual succedaneum for napkins in East Africa, and throughout the Moslem world—he is at once delivered over to the haunting Jinns. The Baloch never pass the place without casting a handful of leaves, a bullet, or a few grains of powder by way of humble heave-offering into the stream. Our guide told us, in accents of awe, how a Suri Arab, doubtless tainted with Wahhabi heresy, had expressed an opinion that this Pir had been a mere mortal, but little better, if at all better, than his own sinful self; how the shallow scoffer’s ship was wrecked within the year, and how he passed through water into the fire of Jehannum. _Probatum est_—defend us, Allah! from the sins of Reason.