We were in an open place where only a low kind of brushwood grew, when suddenly my horse shied, gave a fearful snort, and sturdily refused to budge another inch.

I let him stand until Rashid came up.

He thought to pass me, but his horse refused as mine had done.
'It is no doubt some jinni in the way,' he whispered in a frightened tone; then, calling out: 'Dastur, ya mubarak' (Permission, blessed one!), he tried to urge his horse, which still demurred.

So there we were, arrested by some unseen hand; and this became the more unpleasant because a pestilential smell was in the place.
'Better return!' muttered Rashid, with chattering teeth.
'Give me a match!' I said distractedly.

'My box is empty.' 'Better return!' he pleaded.
'A match, do you hear ?' I cried, made cross by terror.
He gave the match, and I believe I shouted as I struck it.