The people are allowed to circulate freely in and out to
see me, but only the Khan himself and a few of the leading lights of the
village are permitted to indulge in the coveted privilege of spending the
entire evening in my company. The village is ransacked for eatables to
honor their guest, resulting in a bountiful repast of eggs, pillau, mast,
and sheerah.
Away down here among the mountains and out of the world, these people see
nothing more curious than their next-door neighbors from year to year;
they take the most ridiculous interest in such small affairs as my
note-book and pencil, and everything about me seems to strike them as
peculiar.
The entire village, as usual, assembles to see me dispose of the eatables
so generously provided; and later in the evening there is another
highly-expectant assembly waiting around, out of curiosity, to see what
sort of a figure a Ferenghi cuts at his evening devotions. Poor benighted
followers of the False Prophet, how little they comprehend us Christians!
Suddenly it seems to dawn upon the mind of the simple old Khan that,
being a stranger in a strange land, I might, perchance, be a trifle mixed
about my bearings, and so he kindly indicates the direction of Mecca.
When informed that the Ingilis never prostrate themselves toward Mecca
and say "Allah-il-allah!" they evince the greatest astonishment; and then
the strange, unnatural impiousness of people who never address themselves
to Allah nor prostrate toward the Holy City, impresses their simple minds
with something akin to the feeling entertained among certain of ourselves
toward extra dare-devil characters, and they seem to take a deeper and
kindlier interest in me than ever.
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