Erech. Syrian Desert.
And so the days slipped away. At the end of six months we landed out of the Syrian desert into Damascus. An immense change came over Hassan when he was released from the anxieties of piloting us through impossible places and rumoured dangers. He became more boyish and cheerful and amused at everything. His first care on arriving at the end of our journey was, after spending several hours in a public bath, to go a clean and happy man to the Mosque, to return thanks to Allah for having brought us safely through.
We had been to call at the consulate, and, as we drove up to the hotel on our return, I caught sight of Hassan in the street with a crowd round him; he was strutting up and down in his shirt-sleeves, with his head even more thrown back than usual and a wild look in his eye.
"Good heavens," I said to X, "the Prince must have got into one of his tempers and killed a few people in the street," and I anxiously looked round for signs of gore. The Prince took no notice of us, but stalked up and down, the crowd making way before him with looks of awe.
"What are we to do?" I said; "he looks as if he had gone off his head and would knock down any one who comes near him."
"He does look like a prize-fighter," said X; "I have never seen him look like that before."
Our cook was standing on the steps.
"What is the matter with Hassan?" I said to him.
The man stared.
"Nothing," he said, "it's only his new shirt."