So the hours wear on.
The sun is low in the west, and the ever watchful Mustapha declares it is time they started for the city. They have enjoyed a ride on the ship of the desert, as the camel is called, admired the Arabian steeds, which all the money of an unbeliever or Christian dog could not purchase, and looked upon many strange scenes.
Several times during the afternoon they have been temporarily separated. The baronet appears to have a deep interest in the queer things to be seen in the Arab village, for more than once he lingers behind to ask questions as he explains, in the hope of purchasing some article that has particularly caught his fancy.
John never once suspects that Sir Lionel may have another motive in his actions.
When Mustapha announces that it is time they return, they look around for the vehicle which was to take them back, but strangely enough it does not appear.
As the minutes pass Mustapha grows exceedingly impatient. He has arranged matters to suit their convenience, and this delay is annoying. It does not suit him to return at night.
Just as patience ceases to be a virtue, and the guide has announced his intention of finding some other means of transportation, they discover the omnibus coming into view from beyond the thicket of cactus and aloe.
It has been carrying a load of villagers from their homes to the high hills of Bouzaveah, to the native cemetery which crowns the summit.
Then they suddenly remember that it is Friday, or the Mohammedan Sunday, on which day great throngs repair to the grave-yards and visit the tombs of the marabouts or saints, gazing upon some ancient relic which the departed wore in his life-time, and which on account of its disreputable condition no respectable European would touch.
They have the omnibus to themselves, which, of course, pleases them.