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In the pitchy darkness, as the train slows down for the last time, before its immediate “return” journey, ragged figures are seen crowding the station. Their turbans are brightly coloured, despite the dirt and rain to which they have been exposed; their clothes are mere “shreds and patches”; they have fashioned themselves picturesque slippers of straw. Like the grotesque figures of some stage chorus from no man’s land, they dart about us on every side, each man seizing upon some one article of luggage. If I express anxiety about my possessions, the cheik bids me “fear not. God is with us. All is well, and in a short while we shall remember this discomfort but as a page of history.” It was a lesson against worry I never forgot—the secret of Islam’s suffering in silence!

Stumbling over a stony and dangerous roadway, we at last reach a tent on the side of the mountains, which has been prepared for us by the reserve officers. We must sit on the cheik’s trunks and prayer-carpets, for the ground is damp and mists enfold us. My chivalrous friend insists on wrapping about me his shawl, his scarf, finally his long coat. “I do not feel the cold as you do,” he declares as I try to protest; but the touch of his hand contradicts the kind words.