A girl of some sixteen years appeared at the door. “Taala hena!” (“Come here!”) roared the chorus. The girl ran down the steps. A roar as of an angry sea burst forth, as every member of the company stretched out an arm toward me. Plainly each was determined that he, and not his neighbor, should be the one to introduce this strange being.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” (“Do you speak German?”) shrieked the girl in my ear.
“Ja wohl.” (“Yes, indeed”), I answered.
The rabble fell utterly silent at the first word, and I asked to be directed to an inn.
“There is no hotel in our city of Bhamdoon,” replied the girl, with flashing eyes. “We should be insulted. In this house with my family lives a German missionary lady. You must stop here.”
She led the way to the door. The missionary met me on the steps with a cry of delight. She explained that she had not seen a European in many months.
“What would supper and lodging cost me here?” Luckily, the German lady was hard of hearing. The girl gave me a quick glance, half scornful, half astonished, which reminded me that such a question is an insult in the land of Arabs.
“The lady is busy now,” said the girl. “Come and visit my family.” She led the way along a hall and threw open a door. I pulled off my cap.
“Keep it on,” said my guide, “and leave your shoes there.”
She stepped out of her own loose slippers and into the room. It was square and low. The stone floor was half covered with mats and cushions. In the center glowed a small sheet-iron stove; and around three of the walls ran a long cushioned seat. Two men, two women, and several children were seated in a half circle on the floor, their legs folded under them. They rose without a word as I entered. The girl placed a cushion for me on the floor. The family sat down again and carefully and slowly folded their legs as before. Then, after they were firmly seated, one and all in turn, according to age, cried “Lailtak saeedee” (Good evening).