You arrive at the door of your friend's abode, a huge massive barrier
painted brown or green--if not left entirely uncoloured--and studded
all over with nails. A very prison entrance it appears, for the only
other breaks in the wall above are slits for ventilation, all placed
so high in the room as to be out of reach. In the warmer parts of
the country you would see latticed boxes protruding from the
walls--meshrabîyahs or drinking-places--shelves on which porous
earthen jars may be placed to catch the slightest breeze, that the
God-sent beverage to which Mohammedans are wisely restricted may be at
all times cool. You are terrified, if a stranger, by the resonance of
this great door, as you let the huge iron ring which serves as knocker
fall on the miniature anvil beneath it. Presently your scattered
thoughts are recalled by a chirping voice from within--

"Who's that?"

You recognize the tones as those of a tiny negress slave, mayhap a
dozen years of age, and as you give your name you hear a patter of
bare feet on the tiles within, but if you are a male, you are left
standing out in the street. In a few moments the latch of the inner
door is sedately lifted, and with measured tread you hear the slippers
of your friend advancing.

"Is that So-and-so?" he asks, pausing on the other side of the door.

"It is, my Lord."

"Welcome, then."