halfshut, senses half-awake. An Arab sheikh passed swiftly with his
curtained harem; and then went filing by in orderly and bright array a
number of Mahommedans, the first of them bearing on a cushion of red
velvet, and covered with a cloth of scarlet and gold, a dead child to
burial. Down from the colossal tanks built in the mountain gorges that
were old when Mahomet was young, there came donkeys bearing great
leathern bottles such as the Israelites carried in their forty years'
sojourning. A long line of swaying camels passed dustily to the desert
that burns even into this city of Aden, built on a volcano; groups of
Somaulis, lithe and brawny, moved chattering here and there; and a
handful of wandering horsemen, with spears and snowy garments, were being
swallowed up in the mountain defiles.

The day had been long, the coffee and cigarettes had been heavy, and we
dozed away in the sensuous atmosphere. Then there came, as if in a
dream, a harsh and far-off murmur of voices. It grew from a murmur to a
sharp cry, and from a sharp cry to a roar of rage. In a moment we were
on our feet, and dashing away toward the sound.

The sight that greeted us was a strange one, and horribly picturesque.
In front of a low-roofed house of stone was a crowd of Mahommedans fierce
with anger and loud in imprecation. Knives were flashing; murder was
afoot. There stood, with his back to the door of the house, a Somauli
policeman, defending himself against this raging little mob. Not
defending himself alone. Within the house he had thrust a wretched Jew,
who had defiled a Mahommedan mosque; and he was here protecting him
against these nervous champions of the faith.

Once, twice, thrice, they reached him; but he fought on with his
unwounded arm. We were unarmed and helpless; no Somaulis were near.