The Hidden Treasure
Far down, the first of the Hindimini tents, some four or five,
showed on a little spur. Their fires began to glow in the
darkening air as we approached. Their sheep were home
already from the pastures. As we entered through a circle
of snarling dogs, the shepherds were attending to them.
A hairy man with shining brass dagger in his sash looked up
from among the woolly waves. He did not ask questions.
" Where is the tent?" said the Dusani. The man pointed
and resumed his labours.
And we introduced ourselves to the Sheikh of the
Hindimini.
The Valley of tfa Hindimini
The Hindimini had received a lot of visitors that day.
They were all sitting out in the open, round three sides of a
square formed with strips of carpet. In the post of honour a
Dervish sat cross-legged. The Hand of Abbas cut out in
brass at the end of a rod about four feet long was stuck into
the ground behind him and appeared over his shoulder.
His companion was an Indian, with fat and pleasant face, who
had travelled with British and Americans in Iraq.
I chose a place as far as I could from the Dervish, so as not
to inflict on him the unholiness of my sex at closer quarters
than necessary, and saluted him with becoming respect. A
dark, long-faced man sat next me, member of a family called
Malak, which he considered as equivalent to a tide of nobility,
and as showing some old tradition of supremacy in pre-
Islamic days. He was travelling with a small son from the
eastern lands, and took the lead in conversation. The Dervish
had kind and wise eyes, used to the observation of things and
men. I asked him why he travelled.
"To see," said he.
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