Knives and forks there were none; each man dipped his hand into whatever dish pleased him, as the trays were passed along.

The Legionaries did the same.
"Rather messy, eh ?" commented the major; but no one answered him.

More serious thoughts than these possessed the others.
After ablution, once more--this time the white men shared it--tobacco, pomegranate syrup, sherbet, water perfumed with _mastich_-smoke, and thick, black coffee ended the meal.
The Master requested khat leaves, which were presently brought him--deliciously green and fresh--in a copper bowl.

Then, while the slave-girls removed all traces of the feast, all relaxed for a few minutes' _kayf_, or utter peace.
Utter peace, indeed, it seemed.

Nothing more soothing could have been imagined than the soft wooing of repletion and of silken cushions, the dim sunlight through the smoke of incense and tobacco, the gentle bubbling of the water-pipes, the half-heard courting of pigeons somewhere aloft in the embrasures of the clerestory windows.
All possibility of warfare seemed to have vanished.