with the school proposal. His nerve, in waiting behind
that curtain until he knew his scheme had succeeded, and then
walking out bold as brass to let me know that he had overheard
everything, was what amused me. But I managed not to smile.

"What time is the mejlis?" I asked.

"At noon."

"Then I'll go and hunt up my interpreter."

Ben Nazir came out with me, in a blazing bad temper. He was as
jealous as a pet dog, and inclined to visit the result on me.

"Very polite, I am sure! Most refined! Most courteous! In your
country, sir, does a guest reward his host for hospitality by
talking in a language that his host can't understand? Perhaps
you would rather transfer your presence to Abdul Ali's house?
Pray do not consider yourself beholden to me, in case you would
prefer his hospitality!"

I tried in vain to pacify him. I explained that the choice of
language had been Abdul Ali's, and offered to tell him now in
French every word that had passed. But he would not listen.

"It would not be difficult for a man of your intelligence to make
up a story," he said rudely.

"Abdul Ali can talk French. If it had been intended that I
should know the truth that conversation would have been in
French. Shall I send your bag to Abdul Ali's house?"

"No," I said. "Give it to Anazeh. He is answerable for
my safety until I reach Palestine again. Thank you for a
night's lodging."

He walked away in a great huff, and I set out for the house of
Abu Shamah, using my scant store of Arabic to ask the way.
Mahommed ben Hamza was lolling on the stone veranda, gossiping
with half-a-dozen men. He came the minute I beckoned him.

"I've seen Jimgrim," I said. "You're to come with me at noon to
the mejlis as my interpreter."

He grinned delightedly.

"And see here, you smelly devil: Here's money. Buy yourself a
clean shirt, a new coat, and some soap. Wash yourself from head
to foot, and put the new clothes on, before you meet me at the
castle gate ten minutes before noon. Those are Jimgrim's orders,
do you understand?"

"Taht il-amr! (Yours to command)" he answered laughing.

I went and bought myself an awful meal at the house of a man who
rolled Kabobs between his filthy fingers.

Chapter Seven

"Who gives orders to me?"

The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a
story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and
Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whiche