It was rather strange.

He wore an old blue shirt, and on his head a kind of turban, but of many colours and, unlike any I had ever seen upon the natives of the country, with an end or streamer hanging loose upon one side.

In complexion, too, he was a good deal darker than a Syrian, and yet had nothing of the negro in his looks.
Something furtive in his manner of approach amused me, as suggestive of the thief of Rashid's nightmares.

I moved into the darkest corner of the room and lay quite still.

He climbed our steps and filled the doorway, looking in.
It happened that Rashid had left a bag of lentils, bought that morning, just inside.