“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” shrieked the girl in my ear.
“Ja wohl,” 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, which she hastened to excuse on the ground that she had not seen a European in many months.
“What would supper and lodging cost me here?” I demanded. The habit of making such an inquiry had become almost an instinct among the grasping innkeepers of Europe. 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 the 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 half covered with mats and cushions; in the center glowed a small, sheet-iron stove, and around three of the walls ran a divan. Two men, two women, and several children were seated in a semicircle on the floor, their legs folded in front of them. They rose without a word as I entered. The girl placed a cushion for me on the floor. The family sat down again, carefully and leisurely adjusted their legs, and then one and all, in regular succession, according to age, cried “lailtak saeedee” (good evening).