The House Was Empty, All The Turkish
Pilgrims Being Still At Muna; And The Kabirah—The Old Lady—Received Me With
Peculiar Attention.
I was ushered into an upper room, whose teak
wainscotings, covered with Cufic and other inscriptions, large carpets,
and ample Diwans, still showed a sort of ragged splendour.
The family
had “seen better days,” the Sharif Ghalib having confiscated three of its
houses; but it is still proud, and cannot merge the past into the
present. In the “drawing-room,” which the Turkish colonel occupied when at
Meccah, the Kabirah supplied me with a pipe, coffee, cold water, and
breakfast. I won her heart by praising the graceless boy Mohammed; like
all mothers, she dearly loved the scamp of the family. When he entered,
and saw his maternal parent standing near me, with only the end of her
veil drawn over her mouth, he began to scold her with divers
insinuations. “Soon thou wilt sit amongst the men in the hall!” he
exclaimed. “O, my son,” rejoined the Kabirah, “fear Allah: thy mother is in
years!”—and truly she was so, being at least fifty. “A-a-h” sneered the youth,
who had formed, as boys of the world must do, or appear to do, a very
low estimate of the sex. The old lady understood the drift of the
exclamation, and departed with a half-laughing “May Allah disappoint thee!”
She soon, however, returned, bringing me water for ablution; and having
heard that I had not yet sacrificed a sheep at Muna, enjoined me to
return and perform without delay that important rite.
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