Dark faces
grinned over the steaming pot at the door of the cafes, idlers on the
benches smoked hasheesh, female street-dancers bared their faces
shamelessly to the men, and indolent musicians beat on their tiny drums,
and sang the song of "O Seyyid," or of "Antar"; and the reciter gave his
sing-song tale from a bench above his fellows. Here a devout Muslim,
indifferent to the presence of strangers, turned his face to the East,
touched his forehead to the ground, and said his prayers. There, hung to
a tree by a deserted mosque near by, the body of one who was with them
all an hour before, and who had paid the penalty for some real or
imaginary crime; while his fellows blessed Allah that the storm had
passed them by. Guilt or innocence did not weigh with them; and the dead
criminal, if such he were, who had drunk his glass of water and prayed to
Allah, was, in their sight, only fortunate and not disgraced, and had
"gone to the bosom of Allah." Now the Muezzin from a minaret called to
prayer, and the fellah in his cotton shirt and yelek heard, laid his load
aside, and yielded himself to his one dear illusion, which would enable
him to meet with apathy his end--it might be to-morrow!--and go forth to
that plenteous heaven where wives without number awaited him, where
fields would yield harvests without labour, where rich food in gold
dishes would be ever at his hand.
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