he delivered over to one of his servants, and,
wearied with his journey, opened his Persian rug,
spread it out on the sand, and fell soundly asleep.

The sun was sinking, and as the twilight is
very short in the equinoctial regions, he was
soon surrounded by as much of darkness as
ever overshades the country within the African
tropics, where, indeed, a cloud is seldom known
to interrupt even for a moment the brightness
of the moon and the stars, and a generation of
men passes away without their having seen a
single drop of rain.

Through the calm night the slumbers of the
pilgrim had been uninterrupted. But, just
before the rising of the sun, the breeze of the  morning
felt cold upon his head; he put up his hand,
the green turban was gone—it was his bald and
shaven skull that had been exposed to the wind.

He rose in consternation. The pilgrims
gathered round him, and with affrighted looks
and inquiring tongues they listened to his story.
Many of the pilgrims had something to report
of their night visions. They had heard voices,
they had seen spirits, the camels, horses, and
asses had shown unusual restlessness, and it was
agreed by common consent that the camp had
been visited by the Djins; but whatever other
mischief had been done, the loss of the green
turban was allowed to be a sore calamity.

It is seldom that a large caravan is unaccompanied
by necromancers of more or less celebrity,
the profession and the practice of the magic art
being by no means a rare accomplishment in the
Levant, and a man was found who, though he
did not pretend to be a sorcerer of a high order,
or fitted to deal with very potent genii, offered
to do his best for the discovery and restoration
of the green turban. The preliminary discussions
occupied the day, but it was only at night
the Djins were likely to appear.

And when the night came, he went forth on
his mission. This is the report he made on his
return to the assembled caravan. He called
again and again upon Allah to witness the truth
of his narrative, and many a voice responded,
"Maloum! maloum! it is certainly so!"

"I had a sure knowledge of the path I was to
take. The moon was shining, and I made my
way to the granite rocks. On the top of one of
the highest, I fancied I saw something in
motion. I moved towards it quietly, and I saw
that its colour was green. Approaching nearer,
I satisfied myself that it was the lost turban.
The rock sloped from the summit to the ground,
but, though rough, the ascent was not so steep
as to prevent my climbing up, which I
determined to do, never losing sight of the turban,
which was on the very summit. So, holding my
breath, I slowly clambered to within a foot of
the turban, when I stretched out my hand to
seize it, but the turban rose as my hand
approached it, and a head with bright eyes
appeared, wearing the turban. I again put forth
my hand, but the turban mounted still higher,
and stopped when it was just beyond my reach.
I sprang upon my feet. I made another desperate
effort to grasp the turban, but the neck of
the Djin—for it was a Djin, my brethren—
was stretched longer and longer—longer than
the neck of a giraffe. The turban was altogether
unreachable. I was affrighted. I tumbled
down the rock. I found myself lying on my
face in the sand. At last I looked up; there
was neither turban nor Djin. Yallah! Yallah!
every word that I have uttered is true."

The pilgrims all listened reverently, and each
one said to his neighbour, "Allah Kerim!"

But the Afrits, the giant devils, are far more
terrible things than the Djins, and most of the
Nubians have wonderful stories to tell of what
they themselves have seen, and stories far more
wonderful of what they have heard. If you
distrust their veracity, or laugh at their credulity,
they become silent, and there is an end to
their disclosures; but encourage their outpourings,
throw no doubt upon their narratives, win
your way to their confidence, and you may
gather tales for more than a Thousand and One
Nights of amusement.

There is no locality on the earth's surface
which seems more suggestive of strange and
supernatural visitations than that through which
I journeyed with Mohammed Hassan. One
could fancy that there had been, ages and ages
ago, a fierce war between gigantic spirits, and
that this location of the wilderness was the
field where the granite masses which they had
hurled at each other had been left as evidence
of the terrible fray. The contrasts between the
light-coloured sand and the deep shadows of
the boulders, give abundant food for the
imaginings of a creative fancy, especially when
innumerable traditions have associated "the
spirit world" with the daily business of life.
Nor could the most sceptical, the strongest-
minded man, pass in the twilight or the darkness,
through some parts of that solemn scenery,
without a certain amount of awe, which would
be ministered to by the cries of wild birds above,
or savage beasts below, by sudden interruptions
to his progress, by mysterious writings on the
rocks, by the contrasts of silence and solitude
with sudden sounds and screams, all explicable,
perhaps, in the bright sunshine, but very
perplexing in the gloaming and the gloom.

Nearly the third of a century has passed
since I recorded on the spot some fragments of
a conversation with my guide.

HASSAN. This is the place where the Afrits
dwell.

I. Did you ever yourself see an Afrit?

HASSAN. Yes. Four times in my life I have
seen Afrits.

I. Was it in this neighbourhood?

HASSAN. Eiwa! I will tell you what
happened not far from this very spot; it is the pure
truth, by Allah! I was passing this way, with
a little boy for my companion. We were on
foot, and I was very tired. Looking all around,
I saw something dark in the distance; it stood
still while we moved towards it, and we found
it was a beautiful male donkey, a large beautiful
black donkey. I tell you it was black; it was
jet black. Nobody was near it; it had no