Tish having crawled panting from her exertion into the driver’s seat and taken the wheel, in sheer excess of boyish excitement he leaned over and kissed the hand nearest him.

The janitor’s small boy was on the curb watching, and at that he set up a yell of joy.  We left him calling awful things after us and Tish’s face was a study; but soon the care of the machine made her forget everything else.

The Syrian quarter was not impressive.  It was on a hillside above the Russian Jewish colony, and consisted of a network of cobble-paved alleys, indescribably dirty and incredibly steep.  In one or two of these alleys Tish was obliged to turn the car and go up backward, her machine climbing much better on the reverse gear.  Crowds of children followed us; dogs got under the wheels and apparently died, judging by the yelps—­only to follow us with undiminished energy after they had picked themselves up.  We fought and won a battle with a barrel of ashes and came out victorious but dusty; and at last, as Tufik made a lordly gesture, we stopped at an angle of forty-five degrees and Tufik bowed us out of the car.  He stood by visibly glowing with happiness, while Tish got a cobblestone and placed it under a wheel, and Aggie and I took in our surroundings.

We were in an alley ten feet wide and paved indiscriminately with stones and tin cans, babies and broken bottles.  Before us was a two-story brick house with broken windows and a high, railed wooden stoop, minus two steps.  Under the stoop was a door leading into a cellar, and from this cellar was coming a curious stamping noise and a sound as of an animal in its death throes.

Aggie caught my arm.  “What’s that?” she quavered.

I had no time to reply.  Tufik had thrown open the door and stood aside to let us pass.

“They dance,” he said gravely.  “There is always much dancing before a wedding.  The music one hears is of Damascus and he who dances now is a sheik among his people.”

Reassured as to the sounds, we stepped down into the basement.  That was at four o’clock in the afternoon.

I have never been fairly clear as to what followed and Aggie’s memory is a complete blank.  I remember a long, boarded-in and floored cellar, smelling very damp and lighted by flaring gas jets.  The center was empty save for a swarthy gentleman in a fez and his shirt-sleeves, wearing a pair of green suspenders and dancing alone—­a curious stamping dance that kept time to a drum.  I remember the musicians too—­three of them in a corner:  one playing on a sort of pipes-of-Pan affair of reeds, one on a long-necked instrument that looked like a guitar with zither ambitions, and a drummer who chanted with his eyes shut and kept time to his chants by beating on a sheepskin tied over the mouth of a brass bowl.  Round three sides of the room were long, oil cloth-covered tables; and in preparation for the ceremony a little Syrian girl was sweeping up peanut shells, ashes, and beer bottles, with absolute disregard of the guests.