“But it’s charming for all that, a glorious place to rest.”
After riding down narrow, winding streets they came to the gates of the bazaar which, with its vaulted roof, offered cooling shade from the heat of the day.
“We ride in,” her father explained.
“How odd!” she said, patted her donkey, and in they went. At once they found themselves in a jam of donkeys, camels, and perspiring men. “Avarda! Avarda!” sounded on every side.
“What do they mean—Avarda?” Mary asked.
“That means, ‘Make room!’,” her father explained.
“All right,” she laughed. “Avarda! Avarda!”
They came at last to the shops where men sat cross-legged in the midst of their wares. Here were piles of cups, saucers, pitchers and plates, there were all manner of brooms, here piles of cheap, cotton prints and over in this corner long, flowing gowns.
“My friend has a large shop back a little from the others,” the Colonel explained, “This seems a quiet spot. Hold my donkey. I’ll be back.” He hurried up a flight of narrow stairs. To Mary the passing throng, Arabs, Syrians, black slaves, Jews with packs on their backs, and portly strangers of seeming importance, were a fascinating study in character and life.
It was a man of portly importance who at last caught her attention. She had seen him before, but where? One swift glimpse at the picture walls of her memory and she knew. He was the man who had been carrying a bag exactly like her own.