It is not wise for European women to saunter about the old Arabian
quarter unaccompanied, especially if they have been blessed by the gods
in the ways of looks. Damaris Hethencourt most certainly ought not to
have been there, but you must perforce follow the path Fate has marked
out for you, whether it leads through country lanes, or Piccadilly, or
the Arab quarter of Cairo.

The vendor of silks salaamed deeply before her beauty and the
graciousness of her manner, for she smiled when she talked and spoke
the prettiest broken Arabic in the world.

So, putting the huge two-year-old bulldog, which one day was to claim
the proud title of champion, on the leash, she wended her way through
the narrow streets in which two camels may scarce squeeze past each
other and where the _masharabeyeh_ of the harems almost meet overhead.

Water-carriers, camels, sweetmeat-sellers; lowly women in black gown
and _yashmak_; coffee-sellers; donkeys which continually bray and dogs
which unceasingly bark; cracking of whips; shrill cries of "_Dahrik ya
sitt_ or _musyu_," ("Thy back, lady, or sir"); shouts of _U'a u'a_;
clashing of bronze ware; snarls of anger; laughter; song; dust and
colour, all the ingredients which go to the entrancement of the bazaar.

And the odours?

Scent and perfume, aroma and odour; cedars of Lebanon and _harem_ musk;
tang of the sandy sea, fume of the street; the trail of smoke and
onions; the milk of goats; the reek of humanity; the breath of kine.
Make a bundle of that, and tie it with the silken lashes of women's