It was late and there were few people about. The figures that flitted
by were silent and mysterious. A window here and there was lighted up,
but for the most part the houses were dark and without sign of life. We
found no "splendours of the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid," but
for all that the narrow streets looked romantic and weird. The sky had
cleared and the moonlight had given a glamour of phantasy to the vistas
of the street.

Suddenly we came upon a scene of strange beauty and dramatic effect. A
turn in this narrow and cloister-like way brought us to an arched
opening, with some steps leading to the water. It was a sheltered inlet
from the surging and swirling stream of the Tigris, a kind of pocket
built round by crazy old balconied buildings. This was filled with
goufas, the weird round boat of the upper river, and the animated scene
of people either embarking or disembarking made a strange people. We saw
this scene for a few moments only, as we made our way through the crowd
at this point. I have since wondered where all these goufas were going.
They could not have intended to cross the river under present
conditions. I think the rapidly rising river must have upset all
calculations as to mooring boats at this point and their owners were
making sure that they were secure. The noise and apparent excitement was
probably nothing but the usual Eastern custom of making a great fuss
about nothing.

[Illustration: MAHAILAS AND MARSH ARAB'S BELLAM]

At last, after much marching and counter-marching, we struck the main
thoroughfare leading to the Maude bridge, which we crossed. The thick,
seething waters foamed and struggled against the pontoons and swept down