We now entered a low dilapidated gateway, with a broken panelled door,
groaning on its hinges.
Again I questioned my guide. "Who lives here?"
_Guide_. - "Mahboul Ingleez (mad Englishman) hold your tongue! Do you
think we Mussulmans will eat you?"
We passed through several court-yards, by the aid of a lantern, which
the guide found in a corner, and then entered a corridor. Here he
grasped me by the arm, in such wise as made me believe I was about to
have my head thrust through a bowstring. I ejaculated; "Allah Akbar!
Mercy upon us!" blending Arabic and English in my fright, and
struggling, fell with the guide against the door at the end of the
passage with a considerable crash. A voice was heard from within.
"_Ashbeek_ (what's the matter?)" My guide returned, "_Hale_ (open)."
A huge negro now laid hold of me, and pulled me up a pair of narrow
stairs which led to a species of loft, in a detached portion of the
house. The case containing the Address fell out of my hands, and was
picked up by the guide. Another apartment within the loft was now
opened, shewing, through a dim and indistinct light, a venerable old
Moor, sitting in the midst of heaps of papers and books, like a midnight
astrologer, or a secret magician. On our entrance, the solitary Moor
raised his eyes, quietly, and said faintly, "Where is it?" My guide now
rushed in, began talking volubly, and made this harangue, thinking,
however, I could not understand him from the rapidity with which he
declaimed.
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