He Regarded Me With No Favouring Eye When I Insisted As A
Guest Upon Having Some Place Of Retirement; But He Promised That, After
Our Return From Arafat, A Little Store-Room Should Be Cleared Out For
Me.
With that I was obliged to be content, and to pass that day in the
common male drawing-room
Of the house, a vestibule on the ground floor,
called in Egypt a Takhta-bush.[FN#13] Entering, to the left (A) was a
large Mastabah, or platform, and at the bottom (B) a second, of smaller
dimensions and foully dirty. Behind this was a dark and unclean
store-room (C) containing the Hajis’ baggage. Opposite the Mastabah was a
firepan for pipes and coffee (D), superintended by a family of lean
Indians; and by the side (E) a doorless passage led to a bathing-room
(F) and staircase (G).
I had scarcely composed myself upon the carpeted Mastabah, when the
remainder was suddenly invaded by the Turkish, or rather Slavo-Turk,
pilgrims inhabiting the house, and a host of their visitors. They were
large, hairy men, with gruff voices and square figures; they did not
take the least notice of me, although[,] feeling the intrusion, I
stretched out my legs with a provoking nonchalance.[FN#14] At last one
of them addressed me in Turkish, to which I
[p.172] replied by shaking my head. His question being interpreted to
me in Arabic, I drawled out, “My native place is the land of Khorasan.”
This provoked a stern and stony stare from the Turks, and an “ugh!” which
said plainly enough, “Then you are a pestilent heretic.” I surveyed them
with a self-satisfied simper, stretched my legs a trifle farther, and
conversed with my water-pipe.
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