Within the space defined by the five lamps, on a tufted rug, the Mystic
and the Emir are seated, both in _Ihram_, and looking cool and
comfortable, though the night outside still testifies to the heat of the
day.

A wooden trencher, scoured white as ivory, separates the friends,
leaving them face to face. In supping they have reached what we call the
dessert.

On the trencher are slender baskets containing grapes, figs, and dates,
the choicest of the gardens of Medina. A jar of honey, an assortment of
dry biscuits, and two jugs, one of water, the other of juice of
pomegranates, with drinking cups, complete the board.

At this age, Orientals lingering at table have the cheer of coffee and
tobacco; unhappily for the two of whom we are writing, neither of the
great narcotics was discovered. Nevertheless it should not be supposed
the fruits, the honey, and the waters failed to content them. Behind the
host is the negro we already know as Nilo. He is very watchful of his
master's every motion.

As guest and host appear now the formalism of acquaintanceship just made
has somewhat disappeared, and they are talking easily and with freedom.
Occasionally a movement of one or the other brings his head to a
favorable angle, whereat the light, dropping on the freshly shaven
crown, is sharply glinted back.

The Emir has been speaking of the plague.

"At Medina I was told it had run its course," the host remarked.