intensity.

Another thing that struck me about them was that they never seemed to
smile. Sometimes they sang the monotonous song of which I have spoken,
but when they were not singing they remained almost perfectly silent,
and the light of a laugh never came to brighten their sombre and evil
countenances. Of what race could these people be? Their language was a
bastard Arabic, and yet they were not Arabs; I was quite sure of that.
For one thing they were too dark, or rather yellow. I could not say why,
but I know that their appearance filled me with a sick fear of which
I felt ashamed. While I was still wondering another litter came up
alongside of mine. In it--for the curtains were drawn--sat an old man,
clothed in a whitish robe, made apparently from coarse linen, that hung
loosely about him, who, I at once jumped to the conclusion, was
the shadowy figure that had stood on the bank and been addressed as
"Father." He was a wonderful-looking old man, with a snowy beard, so
long that the ends of it hung over the sides of the litter, and he had
a hooked nose, above which flashed out a pair of eyes as keen as a
snake's, while his whole countenance was instinct with a look of wise
and sardonic humour impossible to describe on paper.

"Art thou awake, stranger?" he said in a deep and low voice.

"Surely, my father," I answered courteously, feeling certain that I
should do well to conciliate this ancient Mammon of Unrighteousness.

He stroked his beautiful white beard, and smiled faintly.

"From whatever country thou camest," he said, "and by the way it must
be from one where somewhat of our language is known, they teach their