CAIRO TO KISUMU fiction. They stand in a ring and go through the queerest of antics to the weird music of three great tambourines and two drums played by worshippers quite as wild looking as themselves. It is a religious gymnastic show, the horrible nature of which cannot be described upon paper.

When I first entered the mosque, these Howling Der¬ vishes were squatted on the floor, moving their bodies up and down in unison, and grunting and gasping as though the whole band had been attacked with the colic. A moment later they arose and began to bob their heads from one side to the other until I thought their necks would be dislocated by the jerks they gave them. They swung their ears nearly down to their shoulders. The leader stood in the centre, setting the time to the music. Now he bent over so that his head was almost level with his knees, then snapped his body back to an erect position. The whole band did likewise, keeping up this back-break¬ ing motion for fifteen minutes. All the time they howled out “Allah, Allah! Their motions increased in wildness. With every stoop the music grew louder and faster. They threw off their turbans, and their long hair, half matted, now brushed the floor as they bent down in front, now cut the air like whips as they threw themselves back. Their eyes began to protrude, one man frothed at the mouth. At last they reached such a state of fanatical ecstasy that not for several minutes after the leader ordered them to stop, were they able to do so. The Howling Dervishes used to cut themselves in their rites and often they fall down in fits in their frenzy. They believe that such actions are passports to heaven.

In another part of the room was a band of Whirling Dervishes, who, dressed in high sugar-loaf hats and long 46