All he does is to stain his eyebrows dark, put on the clothes, and cease to resemble anything on earth except a desert-born Arab.

I don't know how long he was learning to make the transformation, but no man could learn the trick in twenty years unless he loved the desert and the sinewy men who live in it.
He looked me over again narrowly, and then decided I must return upstairs and shave my head.

"The only chance you've got of not being pulled apart between four camels, or pushed over a precipice, is to look like darwaish.

Have Narayan Singh stain the back of your neck with henna--not too much of it--just a little--you're from Lahore, you know--a university product." By the time I had carried out that order I could not even recognize myself without the turban on.

"No matter how many mistakes now, Sahib!" grinned the Sikh.