Soon after sunrise I
awoke, hearing loud voices proceeding from a mass of black face and tawny
wig, that blocked up the doorway, pressing forward to see their new
stranger.
The Berberah people had been informed by the Donkey of our
having ridden from the Girhi hills in five days: they swore that not only
the thing was impossible, but moreover that we had never sighted Harar.
Having undergone the usual catechising with credit, I left the thatched
hat in which my comrades were living, and proceeded to inspect my
attendants and cattle. The former smiled blandly: they had acquitted
themselves of their trust, they had outwitted the Ayyal Ahmed, who would
be furious thereat, they had filled themselves with dates, rice, and
sugared tea--another potent element of moral satisfaction--and they
trusted that a few days would show them their wives and families. The End
of Time's brow, however, betrayed an _arriere pensee_; once more his
cowardice crept forth, and he anxiously whispered that his existence
depended upon my protection. The poor mules were by no means so easily
restored. Their backs, cut to the bone by the saddles, stood up like those
of angry cats, their heads drooped sadly, and their hams showed red marks
of the spear-point. Directing them to be washed in the sea, dressed with
cold-water bandages, and copiously fed, I proceeded to inspect the
Berberah Plain.
The "Mother of the Poor," as the Arabs call the place, in position
resembles Zayla.
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