So in the market-place there reigns perpetual excitement, a nameless hubbub, made up of the cries of mixed-breed porters and carriers, the beating of drums, and the twanging of horns, the neighing of mules, the braying of donkeys, the singing of women, the squalling of children, and the banging
of the huge rattan, wielded by the jemadar or leader of the caravans, who beats time to this pastoral symphony.
That man who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate, banging
his head on the ground by the half-hour--and for whom do you think he prays?
And now came the first gust of wind, rushing past the place, clapping and banging
the doors and shutters, smelling of the coming rain, and all wrapped in a cloud of dust and leaves.