that want to go to sleep, but are afraid of dreaming--the hum of
human voices--the clash of cooking pots--the voice of a man on the
roof singing falsetto to the stars (that was surely the Pathan!)
--the tinkling of a three-stringed instrument--and all of that punctuated
by the tapping of a saz, the little tight-skinned Turkish drum.

It is no use for folk whose finger-nails were never dirty, and who
never scratched themselves while they cooked a meal over the primus
burner on the floor, to say that all that medley of sounds and smells
is not good. It is very good indeed, only he who is privileged must
understand, or else the spell is mere confusion.

The cooking box was hardly a success, because bright eyes watching
through the open door made us nervously amateurish. The Zeitoonli
arrived true to his threat on the stroke of the half-hour, and we
could not shut the door in his face because of the fumes of food
and kerosene. (Two of the eggs, like us, were travelers and had
been in more than one bazaar.)

But we did not invite him inside until our meal was finished, and
then we graciously permitted him to go for water wherewith to wash
up. He strode back and forth on the balcony, treading ruthlessly
on prayer-mats (for the Moslem prays in public like the Pharisees
of old).

"Myself I am Christian," he said, spitting over the rail, and sitting
down again to watch us. We accepted the remark with reservations.

When we asked him in at last, and we had driven out the flies with
flapping towels, be closed the door and squatted down with his back