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Page 2
She stood with her head uncovered--it is permissible at sunset--and
with her face lifted, as she listened to the call to prayer, so that a
sun-ray silting in through the silks blazed down upon the positively
red curls which rioted all over her head and were of a tone sharper
than henna, yet many times removed from the shades of red known as
carrots or ginger.
Her skin was _matte_, her mouth crimson, and curved, the teeth perfect,
and her heavily-lashed eyes of so deep a purple as to appear black.
She was slim and supple, unencumbered by anything more confining than a
suspender-belt, a fortnight off her eighteenth birthday and entirely
lovable in looks, ways and temperament in the eyes of all mankind,
which includes women.
The prayer over, and the men again about the business of the hour, she
enquired her way of the vendor of silks who, having quickly replaced
his shoes, had as hastily returned to his shop, his heart rejoicing at
the prospect of perhaps one or two hours' more bargaining--for where is
to be found the Oriental who knows the value of time?
Loving animals, Damaris wanted to find that corner near the silk-market
where can be purchased anything from a camel to a hunting cheetah, a
greyhound to a falcon.
It is not wise for European women to saunter about the old Arabian
quarter unaccompanied, especially if they have been blessed by the gods
in the ways of looks. Damaris Hethencourt most certainly ought not to
have been there, but you must perforce follow the path Fate has marked
out for you, whether it leads through country lanes, or Piccadilly, or
the Arab quarter of Cairo.
The vendor of silks salaamed deeply before her beauty and the
graciousness of her manner, for she smiled when she talked and spoke
the prettiest broken Arabic in the world.
So, putting the huge two-year-old bulldog, which one day was to claim
the proud title of champion, on the leash, she wended her way through
the narrow streets in which two camels may scarce squeeze past each
other and where the _masharabeyeh_ of the harems almost meet overhead.
Water-carriers, camels, sweetmeat-sellers; lowly women in black gown
and _yashmak_; coffee-sellers; donkeys which continually bray and dogs
which unceasingly bark; cracking of whips; shrill cries of "_Dahrik ya
sitt_ or _musyu_," ("Thy back, lady, or sir"); shouts of _U'a u'a_;
clashing of bronze ware; snarls of anger; laughter; song; dust and
colour, all the ingredients which go to the entrancement of the bazaar.
And the odours?
Scent and perfume, aroma and odour; cedars of Lebanon and _harem_ musk;
tang of the sandy sea, fume of the street; the trail of smoke and
onions; the milk of goats; the reek of humanity; the breath of kine.
Make a bundle of that, and tie it with the silken lashes of women's
eyes; secure it with the steel of a needle-pointed knife--and leave it
at that.
There is _no_ describing the smell of the East.
The sale of really good animals--the other kind you can buy by lifting
a finger in the streets--takes place twice a month in a small square
near the Suk-en Nahlesin; but as the way to it leads through many dirty
and twisting lanes, few Europeans ever get so far.
The stock is tethered to iron rings in the ground, the vendors squat
near by, but at a safe distance from teeth, claws or hoofs; the
purchasers stand still farther off; there sometimes occurs a free
fight, when the length of the chain that tethers the jaguar next the
hunting cheetah is too long by a foot or so; and the noise is always
deafening.
Abdul, falconer of Shammar--which district is to be found on the holy
road to Mecca--being of that locality specialises in the _shahin_,
which is a species of hawk; visits the market by appointment only, and,
being independent and a specialist, does not always keep that
appointment.
Damaris turned suddenly into the market and hurriedly looked round for
shelter, which she found in an arched doorway leading to the usual
court of the native house.
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