always are, and dear at any price (the
rate for accommodation is not large). One look into the walled enclosure,
crowded with transport animals and their drivers, was enough, and we
turned to see to the pitching of the tents outside.

The panorama of hills in the west had a red, lurid light, such as Julius
Ollsson loves to paint: across the stormy glow trailed a few white wisps
of smoke where the peasants were burning wood on the hillside for
charcoal. Making a _detour_ of the fondak while there was light to see,
we chose the west side for our camp, apparently the most sheltered; but
the place is a temple of the four winds and gusty upon a breathless day.

It was quite dark before the men had things ready, hampered as they were
by the gale which was getting up and the want of light. We tried to keep
warm, and watched the first star come out from a knoll; at last took
refuge in our wind-shaken tent, unpacked, and sat ourselves down with
outstretched legs, wrapped in a medley of garments, round the little
camp-table, lit by the flicker of two candle-lanterns, the flaps of the
tents snugly fastened together from within, awaiting Mohammed's first
culinary effort.

By-and-by from out of the chaotic kitchen-tent, pitched in the dark,
filled with confused commissariat, and further blocked by Cadour, Ali,
and their small effects, Mohammed emerged, and handed in through an
opening in our tent chicken and eggs cooked in Moorish fat. After a long
interval tea followed, and fruit. We sat listening to the wind, writing
up a diary and talking till bed seemed the best and only warm place. The
gale woke me after an hour or two: the tent, torn by raging gusts,
threatened to give at every moment. I got up and took a look outside. A
wild, gustful night indeed, of glimmering stars and a great white
half-moon--cold too: the mountains stood out sharp; there was little
cloud; round our tent a guard of men from the fondak--always supplied,
for the safety of travellers--were sleeping on the ground, heads and all
wrapped up in their jellabs,--the moon shone on the queer bundles, and on
our five mules, picketed opposite the tent door, backs to the wind,
munching their barley. Neither of us got much sleep; roused periodically
by the hammering in afresh of our strained tent-pegs, by the men's
voices, which would relapse into silence for half an hour, and then break
out again; above all, by the flapping and rattling of the canvas. For a
moment the