The famous well was surrounded by a throng apparently impassable.

"Room for the Royal Hadji--for the Prince of India!" the guide yelled.
"There are no poor where he is--make way!"

A thousand eyes sought the noble pilgrim; and as a path opened for him,
a score of _Zem-Zemis_ refilled their earthen cups with the bitter
water afresh. A Prince of Hind did not come to them every day.

He tasted from a cup--his followers drank--and when the party turned
away there were jars paid for to help all the blind in the caravan back
to healthful vision.

"There is no God but Allah! Be merciful to him, O Allah," the crowd
shouted, in approval of the charity.

The press of pilgrims around the northeastern corner of the Kaaba, to
which the guide would have conducted the Prince next, was greater than
at the well. Each was waiting his turn to kiss the Black Stone before
beginning the seven circuits of the House.

Never had the new-comer seen a concourse so wrought upon by fanaticism;
never had he seen a concourse so peculiarly constituted. All complexions,
even that of the interior African, were a reddish desert tan. Eyes
fiercely bright appeared unnaturally swollen from the colirium with which
they were generally stained. The diversities the penitential costume
would have masked were effectually exposed whenever mouths opened for
utterance. Many sang, regardless of time or melody, the _tilbiye_ they
had hideously vocalized in their advance toward the city. For the most