The postern opened on a tap from his guide, and
the slave having entered, Hartley prepared to follow,
but stepped back as a gigantic African brandished
at his head a scimitar three fingers broad.
The young slave touched his countryman with a
rod which he held in his hand, and it seemed as if
the touch disabled the giant, whose arm and weapon
sunk instantly. Hartley entered without farther
opposition, and was now in a grove of mango-trees,
through which an infant moon was twinkling faintly
amid the murmur of waters, the sweet song of the
nightingale, and the odours of the rose, yellow
jasmine, orange and citron flowers, and Persian
Narcissus. Huge domes and arches, which were
seen imperfectly in the quivering light, seemed to
intimate the neighbourhood of some sacred edifice,
where the Fakir had doubtless taken up his residence.
Hartley pressed on with as much haste as he
could, and entered a side-door and narrow vaulted
passage, at the end of which was another door.
Here his guide stopped, but pointed and made indications
that the European should enter. Hartley
did so, and found himself in a small cell, such
as we have formerly described, wherein sate Barak
el Hadgi, with another Fakir, who, to judge from
the extreme dignity of a white beard, which ascended
up to his eyes on each side, must be a man
of great sanctity, as well as importance.
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