From the north I went to the south, and gazed down on the plain below, to where, under the ruddy glare of the torches and the yellow light of the lanterns, the tents of the faithful stood out against the darkness beyond. The only regularly pitched camps were those of the soldiery, the Sheríf, and the other dignitaries of the Hájj; all of these occupied the space on the left-hand side of the observer; while in the fore-ground, to the right, as well as to the left, the tents of the Syrian and the Egyptian caravans were conspicuous: and most of these were either circular or elliptical in shape and of considerable size, sometimes as many as twenty pilgrims, and never less than ten, sleeping in a single tent. For the arrangement between a Syrian pilgrim and his moghavem is this: The pilgrim pays the moghavem a certain sum of money in return for which the latter guarantees (1) to find him a seat in a kejaveh when the caravan is on the move, (2) to give him the use of a camel on which to set his provisions and belongings, and (3) to reserve for him a sleeping-compartment within one of the tents that are thus turned into portable caravanserais.
Now, the Syrian caravan, whose commander considers himself the chief of all the foreign pilgrims and brings with him a strong detachment of cavalry, claims superiority over that of Egypt; but both caravans glory in the possession of a Mahmil or Holy Carpet, a treasure, by the bye, that is not a carpet at all, but a square wooden frame with a top in the shape of a pyramid. A becrescented ball of gilt silver is set on the four corners of the square and on the crest of the pyramid, and the little shrine is covered all over with rich brocade embroidered in gold and edged with silk tassels. This covering varies in colour and in material, but, generally speaking, the Syrian Mahmil is draped with green velvet and the Egyptian with red. The origin of the Mahmil is said by some to date back to the year 645 of the Hegira, when a Queen of Egypt, called the Tree of Pearls, made use of a similar kind of thing as a litter, on the occasion of her pilgrimage to Mecca; and the tradition goes that she borrowed the design from the chest in which Muhammad stored the wares that he took with him on his journey from Medina to Syria, a journey made before he had revealed to the Arabians his new doctrine. Nowadays the Mahmil is empty. But a copy of the Kurán is fastened outside below the topmost crescent. In the course of time the Egyptian Mahmil came to be known by the name of Aishah, the Prophet’s second wife, who one day questioned him, saying: “Now am I not better than Kadijah? She was a widow, old, and had lost her looks; you love me better than you did her?” And Muhammad answered: “No, by Allah! She believed in me when none else would believe. In the whole world I had but one friend, and she was that.” And it is after this peerless woman Kadijah that the Syrians have called their Mahmil. Along with that of Egypt goes what is called the Kesveh, which consists of eight pieces of black silk and a green curtain. The first is used for covering the walls of the Ka’bah, and the second for veiling the tomb of Abraham. This ceremony, which takes place during the pilgrimage, was first instituted by Kurb, King of Yemen, and in the year of the Hegira 750, a man named Suleyman bought seven villages in Egypt, the produce of which has since gone to defray the yearly expenses of the Kesveh. These villages now yield an income of about £7,000 sterling, and all this money is spent in purchasing the Kesveh and in despatching it with great pomp to Mecca.
After meditating for about half an hour on the inexhaustible subject of my sins, I forced my way through the press to the foot of the Hill, and after several adventures in a place called the “Kitchen of Adam” (where the Indian and Meccan pilgrims of the poorest classes pitched their tents and where even the dervishes and beggars had found a shelter)—adventures too trivial to be related here, I returned at last to my own pavilion, and “laid me down with a will” to sleep. The whole encampment was now wrapped in a solemn hush.
CHAPTER X
ARAFAT DAY: DAYBREAK
Pop, pop, pop! I lay between sleeping and waking, and wondered what the noise could be. Bang, bang, bang! And again, bang, bang! I awoke with a start—surprised to find myself wide awake; but an hour’s sleep is not long enough to stupify a man. The reports grew louder, and the dogs began to bark from every corner of the encampment.
“Come hither to prayers,” sang out the muezzins; “devotion is better than sleep.” By that time every pilgrim was up and stirring. Wheuf! the air of the false dawn, how chill it was! I summoned a servant, telling him to light a fire outside the tent; other pilgrims followed my example; and soon the hissing samovar gave promise of a cup of tea.
The eastern horizon, in the meantime, was growing redder and still more red; and the pilgrims, having performed their ablutions and said their prayers, began to intone the Talbiyah and the Tahlil, pouring out their supplications to God and their belief in His unity, in a wailing lilt of entreaty and contrition. Others stood in circles, beating their breasts and singing the Labbaik. It was a scene of enthusiasm impossible to describe.
Rap-tap-tap, tap-rap-rap, floated on the air: it was the sentinels beating their drums to salute the break of day. Guns fired incessantly on the hills and in the valley and on the plain. And now the hawkers and the worshippers, the water-carriers and the paupers, the hungry and the ascetic, all began to shout together. “Sweet water refreshes the soul,” cried the water-carriers; “drink of the sacred water of Ainé-Zobeideh.” “Give in the name of Allah,” whined the beggars; “my living is in the gift of Allah. Are ye not the creatures of Allah? Yá-Allah, yá-Allah!” “Light the fire and fill the cup,” said a Persian officer, in his eagerness to break his fast. “And don’t forget to ‘fatten’ the water-pipe,” added his companion. “And you shall ‘dig up its grandfather’ [that is, be the last to smoke it as it passes from mouth to mouth], my friend,” said the officer, smiling.
When the sun came up on us, I saw Sheykh Eissa for the first time that morning; he was standing at a distance of some yards, talking to Seyyid ’Alí, whose handsome face shone with its usual expression of light-hearted amusement. The two men bowed to me reverentially, their hands folded on their breasts.
“Look, yá-Moulai,” said Seyyid ’Alí, “the top of the Mountain of Mercy is so full of tents and animals and men, that the poor jinns, to say nothing of the angels,——”