We Sat With Him,
Eating The Small Yellow Dates Of Tur, Which Are Delicious, Melting Like
Honey In The Mouth, And Leaving A Surpassing Arriere Gout.
After
finishing sundry pipes and cups of coffee, we gave the bath-man a few
piastres, and, mounting our donkeys, started eastward for the Bir
Musa,[FN#23] which we reached in half an hour.
It is a fine old work,
built round and domed over with roughly squared stones, very like what
may be seen in some rustic parts of Southern England. The sides of the
pit were so rugged that a man could climb down them, and at the bottom
was a pool of water, sweet and abundant. We had intended to stay there,
and to dine al fresco, but the hated faces of our companions, the
Maghrabis, meeting us at the entrance, nipped that project in the bud.
Accordingly we retired from the burning
[p.205] sun to a neighbouring coffee-house-a shed of palm leaves kept
by a Tur man, and there, seated on mats, we demolished the contents of
our basket. Whilst we were eating, some Badawin came in and joined us,
when invited so to do. They were poorly dressed, and all armed with
knives and cheap sabres, hanging to leathern bandoleers: in language
and demeanour they showed few remains of their old ferocity. As late as
Mohammed Ali's time these people were noted wreckers, and formerly they
were dreaded pirates: now they are lions with their fangs and claws
drawn.
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