"Things at the worst most surely mend."

No craft larger than a canoe can ride near Zayla. After bumping once or
twice against the coral reefs, it was considered advisable for our good
ship, the Sahalat, to cast anchor. My companions caused me to dress, put
me with my pipe and other necessaries into a cock-boat, and, wading
through the water, shoved it to shore. Lastly, at Bab el Sahil, the
Seaward or Northern Gate, they proceeded to array themselves in the
bravery of clean Tobes and long daggers strapped round the waist; each man
also slung his targe to his left arm, and in his right hand grasped lance
and javelin. At the gate we were received by a tall black spearman with a
"Ho there! to the governor;" and a crowd of idlers gathered to inspect the
strangers. Marshalled by the warder, we traversed the dusty roads--streets
they could not be called--of the old Arab town, ran the gauntlet of a
gaping mob, and finally entering a mat door, found ourselves in the
presence of the governor.

I had met Sharmarkay at Aden, where he received from the authorities
strong injunctions concerning my personal safety: the character of a
Moslem merchant, however, requiring us to appear strangers, an
introduction by our master of ceremonies, the Hammal, followed my
entrance. Sharmarkay was living in an apartment by no means splendid,
preferring an Arish or kind of cow-house,--as the Anglo-Indian Nabobs do
the bungalow

"with mat half hung,
The walls of plaster and the floors of * * * *,"

--to all his substantial double-storied houses. The ground was wet and