My little caravan of three camels and three men seemed extremely small after the one we had been accustomed to; but the men were in good spirits at the prospect of soon returning to their homes, and the camels were good ones and stepped out well.
As we left Smint, Sheykh Senussi, the poet from Mut, in a most excited state, rushed past us, waving his arms wildly in the air and called out to the policeman something that I could not catch.
On reaching Tenida we went to the ’omda’s house, lying a mile or two to the north of the town, where we drank the usual tea. Afterwards our host invited us to come and sit in his garden.
It was a large place covering several acres, enclosed by a wall and planted with a variety of palms and fruit trees, all looking extremely healthy. Judging from the size of the trees, they could not have been planted more than twenty years. There was a plentiful supply of water, as a small stream coming from a well, the Bir Mansura ’Abdulla, ran through the plantation with a babbling sound that was very grateful after our hot ride across the oasis. Altogether the garden was a delightfully shady place.
The ’omda led the way, directing my attention to the different kinds of trees we passed. Behind came a crowd of officials and the leading men of the district, laughing and chaffing each other in the usual noisy manner of Egyptians. Finding a smooth level place under a palm, with the stream running close beside it, I suggested that we might sit down there; but the ’omda declared that the best place was a little farther on, just beyond a thicket in front of us, and made way for me on the path to go in front.
The other natives suddenly all stopped talking and followed us in a most unnatural silence. I led the way, turned round the thicket—and found myself face to face with old Sheykh Mawhub!
He was sitting on a rug in the shade of a small fig tree, apparently engaged in pious meditation. It was an idyllic scene, to which a pergola covered with vines and roses that stood behind him made an effective background.
He was apparently prepared for a journey, his baggage consisting of a small sack containing only a few clothes showed that his wants were easily satisfied. A jug of water and a handful of dates, left over from his meal, showed that he had been demonstrating to the luxurious fellahin of the oasis, the simple life that the Senussia lived in their zawia—with the help of a Turkish cook.
The situation was perfectly clear. The little ramp of the Senussia having missed fire, they were desperately anxious that it should be overlooked. So the natives of the oasis, with their usual kindly instincts, had arranged this meeting in order to “make the peace.” I was quite willing to fall in with their views—there was no use in raising the Senussi question.
Old Mawhub greeted me with a benevolent smile, that was almost fatherly in its friendliness. He patted the rug beside him, as an invitation to sit down, and we entered into conversation.