Delightful as were the days spent with Amir Fuaz Shaalan, my visit had to come to an end. Not that there was any end to Bedouin hospitality: when Fuaz pointed to his tent and said, "My house is yours," he spoke sincerely. But I had returned to the Near East to look for pure-blooded Arabian horses, and I was obliged to be on my way. During that winter I traveled more than two thousand miles, visiting the sheikhs of the Syrian, Arabian and Mesopotamian deserts, several of them bitter enemies of Fuaz and indeed of one another. To introduce me to the best-known breeders, I had with me a single friend, a Bedouin, by first meeting with whom came about in a way most amusing and happy.

It had chanced that, when I left Fuaz, he gave me a letter to his brother-in-law, Midjhem ibn Mahayd, sheikh of the Fidaan Anazah -- his good friend and, at the same time, harsh foe, since Midjhem's having married the sister of Fuaz did not affect their habit of raiding each other whenever they could. Fuaz advised me to present the letter to Midjhem's wakil, or agent, in Aleppo for delivery to Midjhem. This was my first visit to Aleppo since 1916, when I had tried in vain to find the sons of Ahmad Hafiz, the Bedouin "blood-brother" of Homer Davenport. This well-known American breeder had got twenty-seven Arabian horses through Ahmad Hafiz and had brought them to the United States in 1906. Eighteen years later, after both he and Hafiz were dead, I was commissioned to search out those horses, and I had bought a number of them and their offspring and had taken them to California.

A towering Arab, more than six feet tall, stood before me. He put his arm about my back, pushed me rather roughly into the courtyard and pulled the iron chain of the clumsy old gate, which closed behind us. Inside was a confusion of camels, horses, donkeys, goats and sheep, most of the animals contentedly chewing away on some hay or grain thrown before them on a matting or leather coverlet. Bedouins squatted around; children romped in a corner over and between their various animal friends. Doves and other birds fluttered from the ground to the bastions, balconies and winding stairs. The place looked like an old caravan serai, though it was cleaner and quieter and had a more prosperous air.

"Min hunak?" -- "From where? "asked the giant Arab in a gruff and unkind voice, without any polite salutation.

Beginning to explain, I dug into my breast-pocket and pulled out the much wrinkled and soiled letter of introduction to Midjhem from Fuaz and with it, accidentally, a copy of Davenport's drawing of "Haleb's Au-revoir to the Desert," which had been given to me by his sister in California, before I left home. In it Ahmad Hafiz and his Bedouin friends are sketched as they say good-by to Haleb, that famous Arabian stallion who later, in 1908, won the Morgan Cup at the Vermont State Fair.

The Arab fumbled the letter and the picture in his fingers and at once recognized familiar faces and figures. A thunderbolt could not have had a more startling effect on the peaceful courtyard. In a half-triumphant and half-mournful voice, almost overcome by emotion, the great fellow tried to make his discovery known not only to all the Arabs present but to any others within a radius of a half-mile, so that the echo of his bellowing voice resounded from the rock-hewn walls, making the doves flutter, the camels jump to their feet, the asses bray and ruckle and kick the goats, and the sheep shove head first against the mares. At once the Bedouins, in their wide, oversized tunics, were hopping around the yard like giant vultures, in an effort to separate and pacify the unruly with their camel-sticks.

Finally peace was restored, and there, in the midst of the quieted waves, stood my excitable friend, tears streaming from his eyes as he turned the drawing in his hands, pointing out to me "abui" -- my father-- and Haleb, the wonderful stallion, whom the Bedouins never forgot. Kissing me on both cheeks, he now asked, "And art thou Davenport's son?" I began to explain -- and it proved to be a long explanation. I brought forth several dozen photographs of the ranch in California and the offspring of the horses that Davenport had acquired through Ahmad Hafiz, and I heard from the lips of my new friend that he was Ali ibn Ahmad Hafiz, the eldest son of the gentle old Arab, who had died shortly before the World War.

Ali had inherited the Aleppo wakilship, or agency, representing a number of Bedouin sheikhs, and his brothers had become his subagents in Deir ez-Zor, on the Euphrates, and in Hama. When I reminded him of the letter addressed to Midjhem, he brought it forth from among his papers, with a gesture that seemed to say, "I am wakil for all the nasl" -- that is, the human race -- and tore it open. I tried to prevent him, but too late. The wakil censors even his prince.

Ali here interrupted his reading to call down blessings upon Fuaz, whom he had not known to posess such gentle virtues and graces as this letter revealed. Then clearing his voice, he continued: "The Lord -- praise him! -- is bountiful! I took onee hundred and thirty-one mares of thy ally and our brother, Barjas ibn Heteyb."

At this the big Arab jumped to his feet and changed his outpoured blessings into a flood of curses upon the head of the far-away prince. The result was a fresh commotion, since he was joined by the other Bedouins, who vented their feelings on the hides of the poor asses and goats. Even I, as innocent cause of the trouble, was rebuked by Ali for my friendship with a villain and cutthroat. At last, in a stentorian voice that seemed to shake the old

I yielded. He tried to throw the letter into the fire, but I made him promise me to keep it until I left the desert again. He kept his word, and Midjhem never knew.

To my great delight, Ali agreed to be my rafik, or guide, and a few days later we started for the Euphrates valley in a second-hand Ford, which he had secured somewhere. He was a friend to almost every Bedouin sheikh except Amir Fuaz, and, since Fuaz was my "brother," I felt no uneasiness about my safety in the desert. Our driver, Ibrahim, a small, agile fellow, who had a lame leg, a smallpox-pitted face and only one eye, was a perfect match for the ramshackle car. I planned to travel 1,200 miles in this way, but, as it turned out, we covered 2,150 miles, crisscrossing our way among the Bedouin tribes. From previous journeys I knew that the Shammar and Tai Bedouins had only a few genuinely >asil< or noble, Arabian horses; so I decided to cover as much ground as I could in a short time in their extensive territory. I loved the country and the people; and I wanted to see for myself how conditions had changed since the World War and since my latest visit.

On the desert plains we could usually make two hundred miles a day. We traveled no roads but followed the directions of rafiks, whom we picked up among the various tribes. Often we stopped over in a Bedouin camp, "parked" our car in some old tent and went out hunting or rode horses or camels to the outlying camps, so that I could pursue my usual sport of searching for purebred Arabian horses and collecting notes on their history, breeding, change of ownership and so forth.

We had to make great detours in some instances, especially after we reached the Khabur River, which flows into the Euphrates some miles below Deir ez-Zor. There was only one bridge in this region. We were now in the extreme north, not far from the Turkish frontier. Here and there we found villages of Kurds and other settlers, but we kept away from them if possible, because the overzealous village officials delayed our progress by insistence upon seeing our papers of identification. We soon learned how to evade them, especially after an experience in one town, where we were ordered to take two Syrian soldiers in our already overloaded car and return to the Khabur River bridge, more than two hundred miles away. The explanation was that the region where lay the Tai dira, or pasture district, was unsafe for tourists. "But I am not a tourist." "Well --" and so on. It was the law, and the government was responsible for foreigners. We could do nothing but yield. After that we kept away from villages and secured the necessary gasoline and oil from some large Bedouin camps, whose sheikhs owned cars themselves. Also we were lucky enough to meet caravans transporting benzine, and we bought some of their wares.

On the occasion when we were obliged to turn back, we had a bad breakdown before reaching the bridge. The seven of us -- Ibrahim, Ali, two rafiks, the two soldiers and I -- spent hours in the hot sun before the car could be made to go again. Almost the first thing Ibrahim did was to kiss the string of blue glass beads that had hung like a rosary over the front of the radiator from the beginning of our journey. "Why didst thou kiss these glass beads?" I asked, knowing well enough what he would say. "They are the blue beads of good luck," he answered in astonishment at my ignorance. Gently, then, he stroked a tall, bedraggled ostrich-plume, which was stuck through a hole on the radiator-cap. "and this feather is for strength, endurance and speed -- such as Allah has given to the male ostrich." he told me. Thereupon he proceeded to make a splint for the broken axle with three skirts, which he tore in shreds. Ali and I were the only members of our party who indulged in these luxuries, and I sacrificed two of them, because I had two and Ali only one. But I was a better Bedouin through the loss.

Near the bridge, which we finally reached by slow and careful driving, we found a desert garage, where we had the car repaired. We got rid of the soldiers and, after starting out toward Deir ex-Zor, swung back again, picked up a rafik of the Tai, whom we had secretly engaged, and set out eastward on our way to the dira of his tribe. Next day we arrived at the camp of Sheikh Muhammad Abd er Rahman el-Tai, pitched in a luxuriant pasture-ground, within sight of the snow-covered mountains of Kurdistan beyond the Turkish frontier. In the absence of the sheikh, his katib, or secretary, received us and led us to the spacious tent, where a large assembly was already enjoying the hospitality of the famous chief.

"Comfort thy spirit,"said the ever ready coffee-maker as he handed me the aromatic beverage of Arabia. Cleverly, like so many eggs in a nest, he held in one hand the small cups called finjan, and clattered them against one another as he poured into them with the other hand the bitter juice from a steaming coffee-pot of artistic shape. After going the rounds, he collected the cups and again poured coffee into them. Three times he served us with as much ceremony as if the most important ritual were going on. And it was! Coffee-drinking is the sacred custom of the desert, and the words spoken by the servant and by the guest, the smacking of the lips and tongue and the turning of the cup so that it yields the last drop, the many "ahs" and "akha" and "ohs," the blessings pronounced upon Allah -- merciful provider of the pleasures of life -- and upon the generous host, are all part of an old tradition. Not only the actual serving of the coffee but the roasting of the green seeds on the hearth, the fanning and blowing of the dung-fire, the expiring of the embers, the noise of the pestle in the coffee-mortar, the rhythmic swaying of the body, become symbols of the Bedouin virtues, the Bedouin manner of life -- and even death. Nowhere else in the desert perhaps is this coffee ritual so preserved as in the tent of Sheikh Muhammad el-Tai, the descendant of the immortal Hatim Tai, of the seventh century, who has come down in history as the most hospitable of Bedouins.

Not long after our arrival, the sheikh came riding in from the chase, and a few moments later he made his appearance in the tent. We all rose to our feet and salaamed. Ali, who was an old friend, stepped forward and took his hand. Then he introduced me. Sheikh Muhammad el-Tai embraced me, saying simply, "Peace be with thee," motioned me to sit down again, clapped his hands and was about to order coffee, but the coffee-maker stood already before us, pouring out the bitter drops.

Our host was as tall as Ali, but of slim, graceful build; I have never seen finer limbs nor hands. His eyes, of deepest black, glittered with a fire that, together with his height and his habit of waring his black silk keffieh drawn half over his face most of the item, gave him an awe-inspiring appearance. This powerful sheikh was by nature a very silent man, but to the ends of the desert he was known for his courage and genuine nobility of character. Since the Tai dira lies in the famous oil territory, which includes the disputed Nisibin district, the sheikh is wooed as an ally by the Turks as well as the French, who govern Syria and the English, who govern Irak: the tribe is considered first in importance in this part of the Near East. Tai warriors are certainly as daring as any Arabs I ever met, courting battle and plunging into it with delight. They have subjugated most of the Arab, Kurdish and Turkoman settlers within their boundaries and levy upon them an annual tribute.

Muhammad el-Tai did not have many asil Arabian horses except those that through the luck of war and raids had been added to his stud. There was a fine Kuhailah-Kurush mare, which had originally belonged to the Mutair in the Nejd and had changed hands a half-dozen times - from the Mutair to the Ajman to the Shammar to the Amarat Anaza to the Muntafik and back again to the Shammar and finally to the Tai. This chestnut mare was presented to me, and I rode her a few times while in the Tai camp.

There was no moonlight during my stay, and the darkness made the danger from wolves seem more exciting. They were plentiful in this part of the desert, very large and powerful fellows living in the high mountains of Kurdistan. It was their habit, however, to prowl around the Arab camps during the winter and early spring.

Hence the Tai shepherds were always on the lookout, and still, on my first night in the camp, we heard several death cries of young kids. All night, too, we could hear the hoarse baying of the dogs, which moved about incessantly among the flocks, and, from the sudden rush of a thousand small hoofs, which belonged to a milling, bleating crowd of sheep, we could clearly tell when a wolf had appeared. The wolves knew how and where to strike and how to avoid the barking hounds. Toward morning a general alarm was given. We all rushed out, armed with sticks and stones, to find the killer who had dared to enter the inner circle of the camp and kill a new-born filly.

The second sunrise found us all mounted for a wolf hunt. Muhammad el-Tai saddled for me one of his own horses, fast but not of such excellent breed as the Kurush, and asked me if I cared to carry a rumb, or Bedouin lance, made of a fifteen-foot reed from the swamps of the lower Euphrates, with a ruff of ostrich feathers, a few crimson streamers and a tinkling piece of silver under the steel spike, three-sided and sharp. He lifted one in his own hand, waved it above his head and, with its aid, vauted upon his mare, explaining to me meanwhile the thrill that comes from hunting the wolf with this ancient weapon. I gladly accepted one of the quivering spears; he and I and five of his relatives carried them, while the other riders, about forty, bore guns. Farhan, the nine-year-old son of Muhammad el-Tai, rode with us, clinging to the flanks of his unbitted mare and, like the others, guiding her with only his bare legs and his hands. He was weaponless except for an automatic pistol in the holster of his belt. He was a chip of the old block and, despite his youth, an expert horseman and shot.

Our left wing soon scared up two wolves, and we gave rein to our horses and pounced on the runaways. There were no fences and walls and ditches to jump, but the chase was dangerous just the same. By the time we had followed the wolves some twelve miles on a nearly straight course over the desert, fourteen of our riders had had falls. I, who was one of them, had been thrown just as sudden spurt brought me so close to a wolf that, plying my lance, I could all but feel it touch the coat of gray. I was thrown clear, and my mare waited for me to mount her again, but I was useless in the fight since my slender reed had been shattered to many pieces. Seeing what had happened, Muhmmad el-Tai threw his lance down and in full gallop took from another man an automatic gun and rode up close to the wolf. With the first shot he took off one of its legs, and with the second killed it.

It was a thrilling day. Of wolves we discovered fifteen and we brought nine down with our guns. Tired but happy, we returned after nightfall to the camp, where new excitement awaited us. Among Muhammad el-Tai's guests had been a certain Shammar, Audan ibn Kadaym Ruwais, a voluntary refugee in the very tent of his adversary, whose cousin he had killed in a raid. According to desert law blood must atone for blood, unless a diyat, or blood-price -- usually fifty camels, with gifts in addition -- is paid; and it was Muhammad el-Tai's duty as a relative of the slain man to see that the law was carried out exactly. But, once this jalawi, as a man marked by a blood-feud is called, had sought the shelter of Muhammad el-Tai's tent, he was safe; for such was the sacred custom of the desert. He had, nevertheless, while we were on the wolf hunt, stolen my Kuhailah-Kurush mare and another man's Sharrari dhalul (the best breed of Arabian racing-camel) and escaped. I had seen something of him and was to meet him again shortly in his own Shammar camp. He was not pursued by any one from Muhammed el-Tai's camp before the customary three days and four hours had elapsed, counting from the hour of his departure.

Not long after the wolf hunt Ali, Ibrahi, a Shammar rafik and I took our departure, and for five days we crisscrossed within the neighborhood of the foot-hills of Jebel Sinjar, visiting the Bedouin camps at the southern base of the mountain. Finally we reached the wide plains through which leads the old, historic rod to Mosul and Bagdad. Here we said farewell to Ibrahim and started him back to Aleppo with the Ford. We then hired seven dhaluls and two mares at a near-by camp and, after spending the night here, rode next morning to the tents of Mishaal ibn Faaris, sheikh of the Amud Shammar.

Never shall I forget the welcome extended to me by this noble and generous Arab. When Ali had presented me to him, calling me by my Arab name, Aziz, he gave me the greeting of the wilderness, "Sallam aleik!"--"Peace be with thee!" Then he took the halter off my mare, put it on the center tent-post and announced to those assembled around him, "Our brother Aziz has returned and will stay with us forever." Yet this was the first time I saw him! There is nothing in the world to equal Bedouin hospitality. How many Bedouins whose guest I became, would deprive themselves of the best in their stores, or of the last young lamb or goat, to honor me and, when I tried to remonstrate with them, say, "Does not God make us richer by the blessing which visits us when thou enterest our tent?"

Mishaal is honored from one end of the desert to the other for his peaceful and moderate political course, which he follows despite all the turmoil about him, and for his unfaltering justice. "Yea, a man without an enemy," they said to me--and I believe it. You need only look into his kindly eyes and fine, full-bearded face to trust him. His virtues are ascribed to the influences of his only wife, "the mother of Naif," and to his father Faris, the famous Shammar sheikh whom Lady Anne Blunt and her husband, Wilfrid S. Blunt, visited fifty years go in search of Arabian horses to stock their stud farm in England. Wilfrid S. Blunt became the "blood-brother" of Faris and as such is still remembered among the Bedouins, since a Bedouin never forgets his friend and his children do not forget their father's friend.

Hardly had I arrived in Mishaal's camp when, to my surprise, Audan ibn Kadaym Ruwais, the Shammar jaawi who had stolen my mare, came up to me and returned it. Instead of thanking me directly, he did so indirectly, saying, "Give thanks to God, O stranger, who will whiten thy face on the Day of Judgment." And I complied, saying "Al hamdu illah!"-- "Praise be to giving him the "peace of god," and wished that he might be so fortunate as to keep out of sight of his enemy.

He now saw in my possession a coffee-mortar, about a foot and a half high, of an unusual mahrab shape, like the balcony of a minaret. At once he recognized it as the mortar that had been for generations in the coffee-corner of Muhammad el_Tai's tent. This mortar, more than seven hundred years old, had been, like the mare a present to me from the generous sheikh. I could hardly have received a gift more to be valued; for a coffee-mortar is the outward sign of hospitality, the Bedouin's greatest virtue, and in this case, since the sheikh was the direct descendant of hatim Tai, it was even more precious.

The Jalawi (he was indeed a "doomed" man and might at any minute be called on to defend himself, since he was in his own tribe and no longer a guest in a third person's tent or pasture district) asked me to lend him the coffee-mortar. I consented. He then took his weapons, a young she-camel, two mares and a slave and set out for the camp of his enemy, carrying under his arm the gift that had been made to me. His wife Mirwah and his daughter Nafila followed in a hundaj.

A week later I heard the full story. When Audan approached the camp, he sent his wife an daughter ahead to turn the heart ("liver," says the Arab) of the generous Muhammad el-Tai. At the entrance to his tent they fell on their knees, took the dust of the desert and the ashes from the coffee-hearth and covered their long, beautiful hair. Then thy held forth bracelets, rings and necklaces in their trembling hands. Touched by their distress, the sheikh called for his own mother and wife, to whom he presented them, asking that they should be given hospitality. After several hours of anxious waiting, Audan himself left his hiding-place and went into the presence of his enemy, speaking words of submission, though not of surrender: "Thou hast coveted my life -- here I bring it to thee. Let this be the day of reckoning. I have naught wherewith to pay thee except my blood and what thou beholdest before thine eyes." Muhammad el-Tai might have killed him at sight, since custom permits blood vengeance at the moment when the doomed man's eye meets the avenger's eye and before he becomes protected by the guest law, but only a very bloodthirsty man would kill in such circumstances. Muhammad el-Tai is, of course, of most noble blood and character. Moreover, he noticed in Audan's arm his own coffee-mortar. It has been understood among the Tai for hundreds of years that a man's life is safe if he is able to lay his hand on a coffee-mortar, the symbol of a guest friendship and hospitality. In this unusual case the doomed enemy returned the very "instrument of peace,"clasping it to his heart on his journey as a token of forgiveness and life to him and his family and flocks.

Muhammad el-Tai clapped his hands and had his slave mix the bitter seeds of hel, from the Holy City Mecca, with the coffee-beans and pound them together in the mortar. Then, as soon as the coffee was ready, he ordered the first cup to be served to his enemy. Audan took three sips and returned the not quite empty cup to the sheikh, who had it filled again by his slave and also took three little swallows. And so the cup followed the round of witnesses--the warriors of Muhammad el-Ti, guests from allied tribes, Muhammad el-Tai's slaves and his favorite son Farhan. Then Audan arose, with the light of freedom in his dark eyes as he laid down his weapons, receiving in return a dagger and a sword from Muhammad el-Tai's own weapons. He fell on his knees and tried to kiss the seams of his host's aba, but the sheikh lifted him up and, with one hand around his shoulders, pointed to the young she-camel, saying, "Blood for blood!"

The curved dagger flew out of the scabbard, and with a leap and a stroke the forgiven man cut the throat of the innocent camel, which fell dying before its master's feet. Muhammad el-Tai took the hand that held the blood-stained girdle-knife, and the enemies embraced each other in the presence of all witnesses ,while the women lifted their shrill voices outside the tent and within their own quarters. There were further formalities. Audan's slave, who now properly belonged to Muhammad el-Tai, took hold of his master's cloak, clasping in his left hand the reins of the two mares, which, with the slain camel, sufficed for the blood price, because the guilty man had thrown himself on the mercy of his enemy. Muhammad el-Tai at once gave the two mares and the weapons to his guests and returned the slave to the former owner, who said gratefully, "The Lord be good unto thee, who sendest me forth with such a happy memory." but, when the slave led forth the dhalul with the haudaj for the two women, Muhammad el-Tai spoke entreatingly, "Abide thou with us, thou noble-born," Thus referring to the fact that Audan ibn Kudaym Ruwais was a descendant of the historical Ruwais, the first Shammar leader to discover the pastures beyond the Euphrates. He then asked the women to be guests in his own harem, and two days later he celebrated his wedding with Nafila, the daughter of Audan. The coffee-mortar was sent back to me by a special messenger. My Bedouin friends told me that, although Muhammad el-Tai is known to be one of the most noble and generous of the Arabs, Audan had taken refuge with him first in order to judge for himself whether the sheikh was the kind of man to whom he could successfully appeal.

As the guest of Mishaal, I looked over the Arabian horses among the various Shammar subtribes over whom he ruled. One Saklawi-Shaifi stallion, just a grown-up colt of two and half years, I saw repeatedly when I rode out with Naif, the fifteen-year-old son of Mishaal. One day I took courage and asked the katib of the sheikh if he thought that Mishaal would sell this superb colt.

Eight hundred gold pounds (about four thousand dollars) had been offered for it by the French in Deir ez-zor, he replied, but the offer had been declined. If I liked, he would ask Mishaal. I begged him to do so, and I offered nine hundred gold pounds and any present the sheikh might choose for himself and his son. I also promised presents to the katib and some of the slaves in the tent.

That evening, late into the night, Mishaal, his son and his friends sat with me in the big tent. By the light of the camp-fire we looked over some photographs of Arabian horses which I carried with me, among them those fourteen Arabian stallions and mares which I had bought from Lady Wentworth, the daughter of Lady Anne Blunt, in England two years before and imported to the United States for an Arabian stud in California.

"Dost thou know," said Mishaal, "that 'Lord' Blunt was my father's brother? Thou art my brother, and Allah is a witness to our friendship. I love thee, because thou lovest our horses and hast even taken the name of the one thou hast loved the most, who was killed." He alluded to a tragic incident of my life when Raswan (the son of Skowronek, the world champion Arabian stallion), a gift of Lady Wentworth to me in 1926, died in California. I had told Sheikh Mishaal of this horse and of how I had legally adopted his name as my own when receiving my American citizenship. "We love our horses," went on Mishaal, "those horses which Allah gave to our forefather Ishmael -- upon whom be peace -- and thou, who hast traveled in many lannds and among strangers everywhere to search for the noble blood, hast found true friends among those who love like thee the swift and enduring runners of the desert. God grant thee long life!"

Neither the katib nor anybody else said a word about the stallion, and I did not dare to ask again, since I could more than ever understand how Mishaal loved his young horse.

The day of my departure came. It was early in the morning. Mishaal led me aside, and we sat down at the last tent-peg of his tent. Then he took from his leather wallet two documents and said: "Thou lovest the Saklawi colt. He is the finest of our blood, and I am proud to give him to thee. Take him to remember our friendship and to remember also our other horses and that thou mayest never forget the >Bedu."<

He bent over to me and kissed me on both cheeks. Then we stood up, and he walked beside me far into the desert, saying never a word when the stallion was led in front of me--a picture of beauty. My companions rode a little ahead until the sheikh gave a sign to halt. Looking back, we saw his tents far away. Then he put his hand on the colt's forehead and said to me his last words: "Amud, I have named thy horse -- it is the name of our people. The peace of God be with thee!"

From Deir ez-Zor I despatched to the katib and the slaves the presents I had promised, and to the sheikh and his son I shall take with me some unusual presents from America, because ->inshallah-- I shall be with my Bedouin friends again in the near future. The two documents I had certified and sealed by the kind, and also surprised, French commander in Deir ez-Zor.

The first of these documents, which bore the seal of Mishaal, chief of the Shammar, referred to Wilfrid S. Blunt as the friend of Mishaal's father, Faris Pasha el-Jarbah, and to me as his own friend and declared that the Saklawi-Shaifi stallion was given to me as a token of friendship. The second document, which is reproduced on page 574, is the stallion's pedigree, beginning and ending with prayer and further adorned with sayings from the Koran, the Hadith and the Arabic poet Imru'ul-Qais. The three Shammar chiefs whose seals are appended, Mishaal Pasha, Hassan al-Amud and Jadan ibn Massiul, testify of the horse: "He is a Saklawi, and we bear witness before God that he is Shaifi, sired by a Saklwi of his kind, that his grandsire is a Saklawi also and his mother a Saklawiyah Shaifiyah, whose pure strain is well preserved and famed among us Arabs."

After leaving Mishaal's camp, we traveled more slowly, Bedouin fashion, being without our Ford. We visited various sheikhs--among them Midjhem of the Fidaan, who was most hospitable and, as I have related in a previous article, talked freely and generously, albeit as an enemy, of his brother-in-law Fuaz. He also asked me for a photograph of Fuaz, quite unaware of the inflammatory letter of introduction so carefully guarded by Ali. It was spring when Ali and I at last returned into the Hamad with the intention of going back to Damascus.

-When we had safety crossed the Bishri Mountains, suddenly a party of Bedouins pounced upon us. They were Fidaan, and so we called out, "We ride before the countenance of your sheikh and our brother Midjhem ibn Mahayd." but they either failed to hear us or did not care. They took our dhaluls and two mares and made us dismount, beating us roughly even over our heads. When the leader of the ghazu himself began to search and disrobe me, I said to him: "Thou shalt answer for thy deed. I have told thee that I am brother of thy sheik, who will heap punishment upon thy head." and I heard Ali say: "Make haste to return us our camels and mares and to take thy hands off my friends, who have been guests of thy lord and sheikh, Midjhem ibn Mahayd." The leader then began to question Ali, and finally he seemed to realize his mistake and gave back most of the things. But he still kept my wrist watch on his arm until Ali said: "Thou blackenest the face of thy sheikh, our brother; restore thou everything which thou hast taken."

There were seventeen riders on horseback in this band, under the leadership of Mataan ibn Dulmi el-Kishur. Soon eight camel-riders joined us and they all became very friendly with us. They would not say much about their plans, but they let us feel that they would stay with us a day or two and then ride into the Ruala territory to raid camels.

Two days later, as we were riding across a plateau, we were suddenly halted by several shots fired from a depression ahead of us. The Fidaan turned and gave the heels to their horses, but, when a rapid fire began to strike them, they stopped. We were in a regular trap. More than a hundred camel-riders appeared from the hollow. There was no doubt that they were Ruala. Only they and the Kumusa knew this country so well and would ride forth with so many dhaluls, just as only Fidaan would have the many good mares and the striped abas of our men. I said to Mataan: "We have fared well with thee, and I will bring word to this Ruala leader that thou hast in truth given us thy protection on the road to see us well into the pastures of my brother Amir Fuaz Shaalan. Only good shall be destined to thee and thy men if thou wilt commit thyself to my protection, and I swear to thee by Allah that ye shall tent in peace tonight by the side of these men of the Ruala."

Gladly our Fidaan nodded his assent and said: "Thou hast whitened my face, and I swear to thee that I have now returned to thee everything." And with the greatest surprise I noticed that he was holding to me in his outstretched hand my compass, a valuable and most necessary instrument, which I had bought in New York before my departure and had not been able to find since our meeting with these Fidaan. I had suspected them but had kept quiet for fear of accusing some one unjustly. But to the honor of this man be it said that his conscience spoke before my Ruala friends should find the compass on him.

Ali and some other men were holding their abas above their heads, a sign of surrender. Five of our mares had been wounded, but none of the riders. The Ruala came toward us, a man on a bay mare riding ahead of the others. He was veiled; that is, he had his keffieh drawn across his face and the ends fastened under his ighal, so that I could see only his eyes. When he was still quite far away, he shouted: "Who art thou, rider upon the gray mare.?"

This question was put to me. I took my ighal and keffieh off, and, holding them toward him, I said: "Ana dakhilak"--"I surrender!"

The rider on the bay mare put his heels into her, came galloping closer and yelled to me: "Turn thou away, O brother, and let not thy blood be upon me; for I have to challenge these dogs who dare to bark in the pastures of the Ruala!"

It was Fuaz! Filled with the fighting blood of the Shaalan, he had torn his veil away and thrown the aba from his shoulders. He bared his chest and arms and shifted the carbine from one hand into the other, while his horse pranced excitedly. He was like a falcon released: nothing could stop him from swooping down and striking except that one word which would command him to come back, like the falcon to her master's fist. The word was "chivalry."

Since I knew that the leader of the Fidaan would accept the challenge for a single combat, as probably some of his men would too, I addressed Fuaz the knight in this serious moment. "I have surrendered unto thee, O my brother, and all those upon whom thy eyes have fallen ask to be before thy countenance as if they were before the face of thy Lord, the Merciful and Compassionate., They have been my companions in the wilderness and claim thy hospitality, O most generous of Arabs!"

It was a good thing that the Fidaan did not hear my plea of surrender for all. In spite of their small number they would rather have thrown themselves on the Ruala and died fighting. I had done something cowardly. Yet it was the only means of preventing immediate bloodshed, and I had a right to employ it according to Bedouin custom, since I was the brother of Fuaz and since none of my companions had lifted arms in self-defense.

Fuaz, however, took special precautions. After presenting to Mataan six dhaluls, two mares, food and a message of greeting to his enemy brother-in-lw, he sent a rafik with the party, next morning when they left us, to give them safe conduct as far as certain hills, since several Ruala raiding parties were out. He also wished, of course, to prevent this dangerous Fidaan ghazu from staying within Ruala territory. "Mataan ibn Dulmi is a fox." he declared, "and for the third time I have lost a wonderful chance to fight him. He has already killed fifteen of our best men, and I should do well to shut up his lips before he dares to say, some time, 'This fuaz pays me camels to keep off his pasture instead of my blood price!'"

With my princely brother Fuaz and Ali, I rode almost to Damascus, where I was to visit Amir Nuri Shaalan, the grandfather of Fuaz. At Adra, an automobile belonging to Nuri met me, to take Ali and me the rest of the way. Since our chance encounter with Fuaz, Ali had become a different man entirely--meek and almost silent. He did not care to commit himself to any expression of feeling about the strong and domineering nature that filled him with awe. Once, however, as we rode along between irrigated gardens, he said, "The lion is the lord of the desert, but he is not my brother and it would be well if thou mightest realize it too!"

It was strange to enter the courtyard of the city house where Nuri had taken up his residence under French protection. I was received by his wakil, who led me past the private mosque to the reception-room, in which I was soon happily talking to my old friend. What a life he had lived in those years since I had last seen him--the years that included the World War!

Some people say that in his old age--seventy-six at the time of which I write--he has become trapped falcon and grown degenerate under French influence, money and civilization. I have heard them unsympathetically describe his appearance s hawklike, sensual, cruel. It is true that Nuri has a smallpox-pitted face; it is true that its expression is sever. Many people condemn him simply because of his looks and others because of the history of his past life or the rumors of his present extravagance. It is true that today he invites French officers and their ladies to his fancy dress balls in Damascus. But he is none the less a lonely old man, craving a sincere friendship. His has been a lonely life for many years. His daughters did not respect him; his sons were killed or went on their own adventurous expeditions to gain worldly goods or political influence; his other relatives, especially his cousins and uncles, were suspicious of him, because he had killed his own two brothers in disputes. He never knew whether people flattered him or told him the truth; he even did not know whether their words had double meaning and contained a secret threat.

Nuri has known times like those familiar to Job, of old, when one messenger after another would come bringing sad news. "In the last days of the Turks,": he told me, "before they entered the war to fight the anglizi, Adub ibn Midjuel, the lone friend of my life, who was as close to me as this rosery in my hand, was killed by the Shammar in a ghazu. None but Frayha, the mare that I had lent him, returned, blood-covered, a messenger of death. Later on, while we were camping west of the Nafud, the companions of Mamduh brought the news that the Shammar had killed the most faithful of my relatives. [He was Nuri's brother-in-law.] But it was left to the Huwaitat to murder from ambush, in Wadi Sirhan, Saud, the last flower of my age, and since then even my son Nauaf has gone and only my grandson Fuaz, thy brother, O Aziz, is left.

"Thou art one of us," the old man then continued, "and what belongs to us is thine. Fuaz, my grandson, has told me news of thee and of thy love for us Bedouins and our history and has said that the two of you have renewed your brotherhood. Thou shalt refresh thyself with those bygone days, as we have refreshed ourselves, and take with thee a memento that is as sacred to me as to my grandson."

He pointed to the wall, on which hung the framed document of the French Legion of Honor, which he had received from the High commissioner of Syria. Beside it were large framed photographs of Prince Fuaz and me with falcon and war mare, and beneath it was Dhulfikar, "the Sword of God," also called "the Sword of Ali, Jidua and Fuaz!" He took down the wonderful blade, kissed it reverently and, speaking some blessed words, bestowed it on me. To refuse it would have been a breach of friendship. I accepted it upon bended knee and kissed the hand of the old prince in devotion to my Bedouin friends, to the gift and to all that it represented.

From the Contents page of the same magazine:

CARL R. RASWAN, in a letter dated March 5, writes of being entertained once more by his friend Amir Nuri Shaalan, of the Ruala Bedouins. "I just came down from Damascus to Beirut," he says, "and had some films developed, among them some of od Nuri in Damascus. The Moslems are celebrating Ramadan now, and, when I am with them, I do as the Romans do -- that is, I fast all day, too, and pray with Nuri before supper in his mosque, and then we go in and enjoy the evening meal." Mr. Raswan concludes this month a series of four articles.

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