’But what can one do?’ as Hajjee Mahmood said, with a pitying shake of his head; ’these Christians are so ignorant!’ He blushed, and apologized to me, and said, ’It is not their fault; all this want of sense is from the priests who talk folly to them for money, and to keep them afraid before themselves.  Poor things, they don’t know the Word of God.—­“Help thyself, oh my servant, and I will help thee."’ This is the second contest I have had on this subject.  Last year it was with a Copt, who was all Allah kereem and so on about his baby, with his child of four dying of small-pox.  ‘Oh, man,’ said Sheykh Yussuf, ’if the wall against which I am now sitting were to shake above my head, should I fold my feet under me and say Allah kereem, or should I use the legs God has given me to escape from it?’

I had a visit the other day from a lady who, as I was informed, had been a harlot in Siout.  She has repented, and married a converted Copt.  They are a droll pair of penitents, so very smart in their dress and manner.  But no one se scandalise at their antecedents—­neither is it proper to repent in sackcloth and ashes, or to confess sins, except to God alone.  You are not to indulge in telling them to others; it is an offence.  Repent inwardly, and be ashamed to show it before the people—­ask pardon of God only.  A little of this would do no harm in Europe, methinks.

Here is a pretty story for you from the Hadeth en-Nebbee (sayings of the Prophet).  ’Two prophets were sitting together, and discoursing of prayer and the difficulty of fixing the attention entirely on the act.  One said to the other, “Not even for the duration of two rekahs (prayers ending with the prostration and Allah akbar) can a man fix his mind on God alone.”  The other said, “Nay, but I can do it!” “Say then two rekahs,” replied the elder of the two; “I will give thee my cloak.”  Now he wore two cloaks—­a new handsome red one and an old shabby blue one.  The younger prophet rose, raised his hands to his head, said Allah akbar, and bent to the ground for his first rekah; as he rose again he thought “Will he give me the red cloak or the blue, I wonder?"’ It is very stupid of me not to write down all the pretty stories I hear, but this one is a capital specimen of Arab wit.  Some day I must bring over Omar with me, Inshallah, to England, and he will tell you stories like Scheherazade herself.  A jolly Nubian Alim told me the other night how in his village no man ever eats meat, except on Bairam day:  but one night a woman had a piece of meat given her by a traveller; she put it in the oven and went out.  During her absence her husband came in and smelt it, and as it was just the time of the eshe (first prayers one hour after sunset), he ran up to the hill outside the village, and began to chaunt forth the tekbeer with all his might—­Allah akbar, Allah akbar, etc. etc., till the people ran to see what was the matter.  ’Why, to-day is Bairam,’ says he.  ‘Where is thy witness, O man?’ ’The meat in the oven—­the meat in the oven.’