A deep “Ah” comes from the throats of the assembled thousands as the blare of trumpets resounds faintly in the distance, and a cloud of dust rises from the road. From out of it there emerge a dozen horsemen charging down the square at break-neck speed, their right arms raised, their multi-coloured robes flying out behind them. With a shout they rein up their steeds in front of the Emir’s residence, then wheel swiftly, and are off again whence they came—the avant-garde of the procession. The sound of drums and trumpets gets louder. The head of the procession comes in sight, or, to be more accurate, the dust solidifies itself into a compact mass, flashing and glittering with a thousand shades. First, many hundreds walking on foot, who, as they enter the square, deploy right and left and mingle with the waiting crowd. Behind them more horsemen detach themselves and gallop towards us, backwards and forwards. Each man is dressed according to his own particular fancy. Some in red, some in blue, some in white, some in green, others in vivid yellows, but most of them, it would seem, wearing half a dozen different colours at the same time, both as to robes and turbans. Their leather boots, thrust into shovel-headed stirrups, are embroidered with red and green; their saddle-cloths and bridles are also richly embroidered and tasselled. The majority, we observe, wear long cross-handled swords in leather scabbards. Some carry thin spears in their hands; one fierce-looking warrior a battle-axe. He seems to have stepped out of the Middle Ages does this particular chief, his horse wearing a metalled protection as in the old days of the Crusaders. But the heart of the procession, moving up slowly, puts an end to these evolutions, and the horsemen range themselves up on either side of the Emir’s residence, their gallant beasts, curvetting and prancing as the “Ah” of the crowd changes into a great roar of sound. As a trial of patience I commend the effort to take a photograph over the ears of a horse who is making strenuous efforts to stand up on its hind legs, while a fine and smarting white dust rises in clouds, entering eyes and mouth, and all round you are people in a fine frenzy of excitement, mingled with apprehension, lest your mount takes it into his head to ride amuck in the midst of them, which he has every appearance of wishing to do.

Rattle, rattle, come the drums, mingled with the long-drawn-out notes of the tin or silver trumpets. Suddenly a loud shout arises, a shout of merriment, as a monstrous figure, clad in skins of beasts, and, apparently, hung round with bladders, in his hand a long stick, dashes out of the advancing throng, clearing the intervening space between it and the Emir’s residence in a succession of frantic bounds. This is the Court fool, and his appearance is quite in setting with the piece. For this whole scene is a scene out of the Arabian Nights, and, really, one would hardly be astonished at the appearance of Jins, or even of Eblis himself. At last, here is the Emir and his immediate bodyguard, and the drummers and the trumpeters. The air resounds with prolonged “Ah! Ah! Ahs.” There is a vast tossing of arms, and prancing of horses, and glittering of spears, a climax of sound and colour—and dust.

The Emir Aliu is a fine looking man, with a good straight nose, intelligent, rather cruel-looking eyes. His mouth we cannot see, for the folds of the turban are drawn across the lower part of his face. A dark, indigo-dyed purple turban and under-cloak; over it a snow-white robe of silk with a tasselled cape which half hides the turban—these are the principal coverings to voluminous robes of many tints. His feet are encased in beautifully embroidered boots, and his saddle is richly ornamented. On the forefinger of his left hand is a heavy silver ring. Halting, he turns and faces the multitude. His attendants, one on either side, wave the dust away from his face with ostrich feather fans. Others, dressed in red and green, and carrying long staves, range themselves in front of him and shout his praises in stentorian tones. Four figures on foot advance, three of them are clad in skins and carry drums. The fourth is a crouching creature with a curious wizened face bearing a drawn sword in his hand. A sword dance ensues, the four going round and round in a circle. The gentleman with a sword contorts himself, prods viciously at imaginary foes, and every now and then makes a playful attempt to smite off one of the drummers’ legs. This performance being terminated—accompanied the while by incessant shouting on the part of every one in general—the actors retire, and the Emir holds up his thin aristocratic hand.