On This Occassion, [P.199] However, All Hurry To Be Foremost, As The “Race From Arafat” Is Enjoyed By None But The Badawin.

Although we worked with a will, our animals were not ready to move before sunset, when the preacher gave the signal of “Israf,” or permission to depart.

The pilgrims,

“—swaying to and fro, Like waves of a great sea, that in mid shock Confound each other, white with foam and fear,”

rushed down the hill with a “Labbayk” sounding like a blast, and took the road to Muna. Then I saw the scene which has given to this part of the ceremonies the name of Al-Daf’a min Arafat,—the “Hurry from Arafat.” Every man urged his beast with might and main: it was sunset; the plain bristled with tent-pegs, litters were crushed, pedestrians were trampled, camels were overthrown: single combats with sticks and other weapons took place; here a woman, there a child, and there an animal were lost; briefly, it was a chaotic confusion.

To my disgust, old Ali insisted upon bestowing his company upon me. He gave over his newly found mule to the boy Mohammed, bidding him take care of the beast, and mounted with me in the Shugduf. I had persuaded Shaykh Mas’ud, with a dollar, to keep close in rear of the pretty Meccan; and I wanted to sketch the Holy Hill. The senior began to give orders about the camel—I, counter-orders. The camel was halted. I urged it on: old Ali directed it to be stopped. Meanwhile the charming face that smiled at me from the litter grew dimmer and dimmer; the more I stormed, the less I was listened to—a string of camels crossed our path—I lost sight of the beauty. Then we began to advance. Again, my determination to sketch seemed likely to fail before the Zemzemi’s little snake’s eye. After a few minutes’ angry search for expedients, one suggested itself. “Effendi!” said old Ali, “sit quiet; there is danger here.” I tossed about like one suffering from evil conscience or from the

[p.200] colic. “Effendi!” shrieked the senior, “what art thou doing? Thou wilt be the death of us.” “Wallah!” I replied with a violent plunge, “it is all thy fault! There!” (another plunge)—“put thy beard out of the other opening, and Allah will make it easy to us.” In the ecstasy of fear my tormentor turned his face, as he was bidden, towards the camel’s head. A second halt ensued, when I looked out of the aperture in rear, and made a rough drawing of the Mountain of Mercy.

At the Akhshabayn, double lines of camels, bristling with litters, clashed with a shock more noisy than the meeting of torrents. It was already dark: no man knew what he was doing. The guns roared their brazen notes, re-echoed far and wide by the harsh voices of the stony hills. A shower of rockets bursting in the air threw into still greater confusion the timorous mob of women and children.

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