They are in Al Jezira, the old Arab town.
The passage is so narrow that at times John could easily touch the walls of the spectral houses on either side by extending his arms.
Every little while there is a short step. Now and then an arch from which hangs a queer lantern, burning dimly. Over a door, here and there, a light marks the residence of some Moor or Arab of note. But for these the passage-way would be totally dark, even on the brightest moonlight night.
They meet bearded and turbaned Arabs, who stalk majestically along, proud as Lucifer, even without a piastre in their purses—even women vailed as usual, wearing anklets, and with their nails stained with henna.
The men salute, and Mustapha replies, while the disguised young American merely bows his head, which he has hidden after the manner of one who mourns.
Thus they advance.
Presently they turn sharply to the left, and enter a dark passage.
"We will wait here a few minutes."
"But why?" asks the impatient doctor.
"You saw the group above descending, monsieur?"