Riding across the empty market-place and past the spot where the rough stone altar still stood with charred bones protruding from the ashes of its extinguished fire--were they those of our friends the camel-drivers?
I wondered--we entered the north street of the town.
Here, standing at the doors of their houses, were many of the inhabitants who had gathered to watch us pass.

Never did I see hate more savage than was written on those faces as they shook their fists at us and muttered curses not loud but deep.
No wonder! for they were all ruined, poor folk, with nothing to look forward to but starvation until long months hence the harvest came again for those who would live to gather it.

Also they were convinced that we, the white magician and the prophet of their enemy the Child, had brought this disaster on them.

Had it not been for the escort I believe they would have fallen on us and torn us to pieces.

Considering them I understood for the first time how disagreeable real unpopularity _can be_.