At the mud landing, more than fifty had assembled, each hoping to earn a half-penny by carrying a corpse up the hill where, according to tradition, the Prophet Ezekiel had probably walked on his bare feet many times, for Koofa was a city on the west bank of the Shat-El-Chebar, long before Abraham left this region for the land of Canaan.

When all was ready for the funeral march and Shammo had been loaded with the luggage, which consisted of pillows, blankets and cooking utensils, his face actually did take on the mournful hue of an undertaker carrying the dead across the dark river.

Our guide sang out something which I supposed indicated that a burial troop was following as he dashed through the crowd, up the cliff, dodging this way and that through the dark, alley-like streets and rooms, where tall men with dark visages sat on high benches and scowled at our approach, until he landed us in a square cement room, about 12×12, with no ventilation save a hole over the door, when he mysteriously disappeared, taking his dim oil light with him.

Soon officers appeared whom, I could see, were confused. Moses tried to pacify them by saying I was a rich man and would pay much money, but they did not seem to pacify, because the rich man was neither a Mohammedan nor a dead man. Their howling was to the effect that the owner of the room was ruined, as no dead Mohammedan would consent to be laid in that room after we had occupied it. At last, after Moses had killed all the time he possibly could, I demanded to see the Sheik, which request is never refused among the Arabs.