“No more petrol!” exclaimed the bash agha nervously. It was the first time during the whole of the proceedings that he had shown any emotion.
“Ma kanch,” repeated the driver.
No one spoke. I heard Madani murmuring “Mektoub,” but otherwise there was silence as we stood there in the driving rain watching the car. Then suddenly the bash agha said, as if to the skies, “I pray Allah that it is raining like this in the Tell; my brother’s crops have sore need of rain.”
“Inch Allah,” they all said.
It filled me with amazement. I had before me the complete abstraction of immediate discomfort, the unaccountable Oriental mind, praying to Allah, miles from anywhere, soaked to the skin, and with no means of getting home. I thought of my English friends and their attitude and thoughts on such an occasion. However, it was no good standing in contemplation.
“Well, what do you propose doing?” I ventured at last. “I am getting cold.”
“I don’t know,” replied the old man, brushing drops of rain off his beard. “What do you think, my friend?”
“To my mind the only possible thing to do is to walk back before it gets too dark,” I said.
“But the rain,” said the kadi, “and the mud, and the wind!”
“A little rain and wind more or less never did me any harm,” I replied; “though perhaps I am more used to it than you.”