Retiring outside the circle of spectators, I again fired the six chambers of my revolver.
Then arose from the women a high-pitched and long-drawn “Yu, yu, yu,” followed by some musket shots.
Bowing to the Khalifa I presented him with the revolver. He gave me his hand, bringing it afterwards to his lips. This was the seal of our friendship.
“Would you like the women to sing for you, or would you prefer men-singers?” asked the Khalifa.
“As you will, brother; I do not wish to interrupt your fête; let it go on as arranged before my arrival.”
However, the old man insisted on my deciding which I preferred, so I could not deny that I was inclined to hear the women sing.
They sat before me; I could not distinguish their features. Amongst them, I was told, sat the first wife of the bridegroom Mohammed—sharing in the universal rejoicings.
According to report, she is comparatively young and still pretty, and who knows but that her heart aches at the thought that soon she must share her husband with a younger rival—or perhaps it may seem to her quite natural, and she congratulates herself on the prospect of having someone to help in her work, which is not of the lightest.
The Khalifa laid his hand on my shoulder to warn me that the performance was about to begin.
In somewhat drawling measure, a sweet female voice improvised a solo, the chorus being taken up by the surrounding women, interrupted now and again by the shrill “Yu, yu.”