Fires gleam brightly, each one surrounded by a knot of camels couched
in the dust, their noses converging towards the flame, while old desert
hags, bent double with a life of hardship, bustle about the cooking-pots.
There are brawls, too--Arabs seizing each other by the throat, raising
sticks and uttering wild imprecations....
[ILLUSTRATION: Cafe by the Mulberry Tree]
But within that windowless chamber, all is peace. Eternal twilight reigns,
and your eyes must become accustomed to the gloom ere you can perceive the
cobwebby ceiling of palm-rafters, smoke-begrimed and upheld by two stone
columns that glisten with the dirt of ages. Here is the hearth, overhung
by a few ancient pots, where the server, his head enveloped in a greasy
towel, officiates like some high priest at the altar. You may have milk,
or the mixture known as coffee, or tea flavoured in Moroccan style with
mint, or with cinnamon, or pepper. The water-vessels stew everlastingly
upon a slow fire fed with the residue of pressed olives. Or, if too poor,
you may take a drink of water out of the large clay tub that stands by the
door.
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