ich Ayisha told us Ali Higg himself lived, overlooking the
entire camp and directing its destinies.

On the top of the mountain in front of us was the tomb of Aaron,
Moses' brother. On another mountain farther off stood a great
crusader castle all in ruins; and to left and right were endless
remains of civilization that throve when the British were living
in mud-and-wattle huts. The dry climate had preserved it all; but
there was water enough; it only needed the labor of a thousand
men to remake a city of it.

We avoided the amphitheater with its hundreds of tents pitched
inside and all about it, because Ayisha said the women would come
running out to greet her, and she did not desire that any more
than we did. So we turned to the right, and started up a flight
of steps nearly a mile long that led to an ancient place of
sacrifice; two hundred yards up that the track turned off that
led to Ali Higg's cavern.

It was there, where the broken steps and sidetrack met, that the
first men came hurrying to meet us and blocked our way--four of
them, active as goats, and looking fierce enough to scare away
twice their number. But they recognized Ayisha, and stood aside
at once to let us pass, showing her considerable gruff respect
and asking a string of questions, which she countered with
platitudes. They did not follow us, but stayed on guard at the
corner, as if the meeting between Ali Higg and his wife were
something to keep from prying eyes.

So the far-famed Ali Higg was alone in his great cave when we
reached it, sitting near the entrance propped on skins and
cushions with a perfect armory of weapons on the floor beside
him. The interior was hung with fine Bokhara embroideries, and
every inch of the floor was covered with rugs.

There was another cave opening into that in which he sat; and it,
too, was richly decorated; but the sound of women's voices that
we heard came from a third cave around the corner of the cliff
wall, not connected. Ali Higg was apparently in no mood for
female company--or any other kind.

In the shadow of the overhanging rock he looked so like Grim it
was laughable. He was a caricature of our man, with all the
refinement and humor subtly changed into irritable anger. He
looked as if he would scream if you touched him, and no wonder;
for the back of the poor fellow's neck, half hidden by the folds
of his head-cloth, was a perfect mess of boils that made every
movement of his head an agony.