The day before the pilgrimage.

A cloud had hung over the valley where Mecca lies like drift in the bed
of a winding gorge. About ten o'clock in the morning the cloud
disappeared over the summit of Abu Kubays in the east. The promise of
rain was followed by a simoom so stifling that it plunged every
breathing thing into a struggle for air. The dogs burrowed in the shade
of old walls; birds flew about with open beaks; the herbage wilted, and
the leaves on the stunted shrubs ruffled, then rolled up, like drying
cinnamon. If the denizens of the city found no comfort in their houses
of stone and mud, what suffering was there for the multitude not yet
fully settled in the blistering plain beyond the bluffs of Arafat?

The zealous pilgrim, obedient to the law, always makes haste to
celebrate his arrival at the Holy City by an immediate visit to the
Haram. If perchance he is to see the enclosure for the first time, his
curiosity, in itself pardonable, derives a tinge of piety from duty. The
Prince of India but illustrated the rule. He left his tents pitched
close to those of the Emir El Hajj and the Scherif of Mecca, under the
Mountain of Mercy, as Arafat was practically translated by the very
faithful. Having thus assured the safety of his property, for
conveniency and greater personal comfort he took a house with windows
looking into the Mosque. By so doing, he maintained the dignity of his
character as a Prince of India. The beggars thronging his door furnished
lively evidence of the expectations his title and greatness had already
excited.

With a guide, his suite, and Nilo shading his head with an umbrella of
light green paper, the Prince appeared in front of the chief entrance to
the sacred square from the north. [Footnote: The Bab el Vzyadeh.]