Read Ebook: Reaching for the moon by Hunter Evan

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It is hopeless to wait for wild boar now. One or two pariah dogs, hailing from nowhere, have been attracted to the camp, Salam has given them the waste food, and they have installed themselves as our protectors, whether out of a feeling of gratitude or in hope of favours to come I cannot tell, but probably from a mixture of wise motives. They are alert, savage beasts, of a hopelessly mixed breed, but no wild boar will come rooting near the camp now, nor will any thief, however light-footed, yield to the temptation our tents afford.

We have but one visitor after the last curtain has been drawn, a strange bird with a harsh yet melancholy note, that reminds me of the night-jar of the fen lands in our own country. The hills make a semicircle round the camp, and the visitor seems to arrive at the corner nearest Spartel about one o'clock in the morning. It cries persistently awhile, and then flies to the middle of the semicircle, just at the back of the tents, where the note is very weird and distinct. Finally it goes to the other horn of the crescent and resumes the call--this time, happily, a much more subdued affair. What is it? Why does it come to complain to the silence night after night? One of the men says it is a djin, and wants to go back to Tangier, but Salam, whose loyalty outweighs his fears, declares that even though it be indeed a devil and eager to devour us, it cannot come within the charmed range of my revolver. Hence its regret, expressed so unpleasantly. I have had to confess to Salam that I have no proof that he is wrong.

Now and again in the afternoon the tribesmen call to one another from the hill tops. They possess an extraordinary power of carrying their voices over a space that no European could span. I wonder whether the real secret of the powers ascribed to the half-civilised tribes of Africa has its origin in this gift. Certain it is that news passes from village to village across the hills, and that no courier can keep pace with it. In this way rumours of great events travel from one end of the Dark Continent to the other, and if the tales told me of the passage of news from South to North Africa during the recent war were not so extravagant as they seem at first hearing, I would set them down here, well assured that they would startle if they could not convince. In the south of Morocco, during the latter days of my journey, men spoke with quiet conviction of the doings of Sultan and Pretender in the North, just as though Morocco possessed a train or telegraph service, or a native newspaper. It does not seem unreasonable that, while the deserts and great rolling plains have extended men's vision to a point quite outside the comprehension of Europe, other senses may be at least equally stimulated by a life we Europeans shall: never know intimately. Perhaps the fear of believing too readily makes us unduly sceptical, and inclined to forget that our philosophy cannot compass one of the many mysteries that lie at our door.

If any proof were required that Morocco in all its internal disputes is strictly tribal, our safe residence here would supply one. On the other side of Tangier, over in the direction of Tetuan, the tribes are out and the roads are impassable. Europeans are forbidden to ride by way of Angera to Tetuan. Even a Minister, the representative of a great European Power, was warned by old Hadj Mohammed Torres, the resident Secretary for Foreign Affairs, that the Moorish Administration would not hold itself responsible for his safety if he persisted in his intention to go hunting among the hills. And here we remain unmolested day after day, while the headmen of the Mediunah tribe discuss with perfect tranquillity the future of the Pretender's rebellion, or allude cheerfully to the time when, the Jehad being proclaimed, the Moslems will be permitted to cut the throats of all the Unbelievers who trouble the Moghreb. In the fatalism of our neighbours lies our safety. If Allah so wills, never a Nazarene will escape the more painful road to eternal fire; if it is written otherwise, Nazarene torment will be posthumous. They do not know, nor, in times when the land is preparing for early harvest, do they greatly care, what or when the end may be. Your wise Moor waits to gather in his corn and see it safely hoarded in the clay-lined and covered pits called mat'moras. That work over, he is ready and willing, nay, he is even anxious, to fight, and if no cause of quarrel is to be found he will make one.

Every year or two a party of travellers settles on this plateau, says the headman of Mediunah. From him I hear of a fellow writer from England who was camped here six years ago. Travellers stay sometimes for three or four days, sometimes for as many weeks, and he has been told by men who have come many miles from distant markets, that the Nazarenes are to be found here and there throughout the Moroccan highlands towards the close of the season of the winter rains. Clearly their own land is not a very desirable abiding place, or they have sinned against the law, or their Sultan has confiscated their worldly goods, remarks the headman. My suggestion that other causes than these may have been at work, yields no more than an assertion that all things are possible, if Allah wills them. It is his polite method of expressing reluctance to believe everything he is told.

From time to time, when we are taking our meals in the open air, I see the shepherd boys staring at us from a respectful distance. To them we must seem no better than savages. In the first place, we sit on chairs and not on the ground. We cut our bread, which, as every True Believer knows, is a wicked act and defies Providence, since bread is from Allah and may be broken with the hand but never touched with a knife. Then we do not know how to eat with our fingers, but use knives and forks and spoons that, after mere washing, are common property. We do not have water poured out over our fingers before the meal begins,--the preliminary wash in the tent is invisible and does not count,--and we do not say "Bismillah" before we start eating. We are just heathens, they must say to themselves. Our daily bathing seems to puzzle them greatly. I do not notice that little Larbi or his brother Kasem ever tempt the sea to wash or drown them. Yet they look healthy enough, and are full of dignity. You may offer them fruit or sweetmeats or anything tempting that may be on the table, and they will refuse it. I fancy they regard the invitation to partake of Nazarene's food as a piece of impertinence, only excusable because Nazarenes are mad.

The days slip away from the plateau below Mediunah. March has yielded place to April. To-morrow the pack-mules will be here at sunrise. In the afternoon, when the cool hours approach, camp will be struck, and we shall ride down the avenue of cork trees for the last time on the way to "Tanjah of the Nazarenes," whence, at the week end, the boat will carry us to some Atlantic port, there to begin a longer journey.

FOOTNOTES:

"Moreover, we have decked the lower heaven with lamps, and have made them for pelting the devils."--Al Koran; Sura, "The Kingdom."

"The Far West", the native name for Morocco.

One of the most charming of these houses is "Aidonia," belonging to Mr. Ion Perdicaris. He was seized there by the brigand Rais Uli in May last.

Shelters provided by the Government for travellers.

A.J. Dawson, whose novels dealing with Morocco are full of rare charm and distinction.

FROM TANGIER TO DJEDIDA

FROM TANGIER TO DJEDIDA

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

Alas, that modern knowledge should have destroyed all faith in old legend! The fabled fruits of the Hesperides turn to oranges in the hands of our wise men, the death-dealing dragon becomes Wad Lekkus itself, so ready even to-day to snarl and roar at the bidding of the wind that comes up out of the south-west, and the dusky maidens of surpassing loveliness are no more than simple Berber girls, who, whilst doubtless dusky, and possibly maidenly as ever, have not inherited much of the storied beauty of their forbears. In spite of this modern perversion of the old tale I find that the oranges of the dining-table have a quite rare charm for me to-night,--such an attraction as they have had hitherto only when I have picked them in the gardens of Andalusia, or in the groves that perfume the ancient town of Jaffa at the far eastern end of the Mediterranean. Now I have one more impression to cherish, and the scent of a blossoming orange tree will recall for me El Araish as I saw it at the moment when the shroud of evening made the mosques and the kasbah of Mulai al Yazeed melt, with the great white spaces between them, into a blurred pearly mass without salient feature.

You shall still enjoy the sense of being in touch with past times and forgotten people, if you will walk the deck of a ship late at night. Your fellow-passengers are abed, the watch, if watch there be, is invisible, the steady throbbing movement of the screw resolves itself into a pleasing rhythmic melody. So far as the senses can tell, the world is your closet, a silent pleasaunce for your waking dreams. The coast-line has no lights, nor is any other vessel passing over the waters within range of eye or glass. The hosts of heaven beam down upon a silent universe in which you are the only waking soul. On a sudden eight bells rings out sharply from the forecastle head, and you spring back from your world of fancy as hurriedly as Cinderella returned to her rags when long-shore midnight chimed. The officer of the middle watch and a hand for the wheel come aft to relieve their companions, the illusion has passed, and you go below to turn in, feeling uncomfortably sure that your pretty thoughts will appear foolish and commonplace enough when regarded in the matter-of-fact light of the coming day.

Wealthy merchants had brought their horses within the shadow of the sok's high walls and loosened the many-clothed saddles. Slaves walked behind their masters or trafficked on their behalf. The snake-charmer, the story-teller, the beggar, the water-carrier, the incense seller, whose task in life is to fumigate True Believers, all who go to make the typical Moorish crowd, were to be seen indolently plying their trade. But inquiries for mules, horses, and servants for the inland journey met with no ready response. D?r el Baida, I was assured, had nothing to offer; Djedida, lower down along the coast, might serve, or Saffi, if Allah should send weather of a sort that would permit the boat to land.

As it happened, Djedida was the steamer's next port of call, so we made haste to return to her hospitable decks. I carried with me a vivid impression of D?r el Baida, of the market-place with its varied goods, and yet more varied people, the white Arabs, the darker Berbers, the black slaves from the Soudan and the Draa. Noticeable in the market were the sweet stores, where every man sat behind his goods armed with a feather brush, and waged ceaseless war with the flies, while a corner of his eye was kept for small boys, who were well nigh as dangerous. I remember the gardens, one particularly well. It belongs to the French Consul, and has bananas growing on the trees that face the road; from beyond the hedge one caught delightful glimpses of colour and faint breaths of exquisite perfume.

I remember, too, the covered shed containing the mill that grinds the flour for the town, and the curious little bakehouse to which D?r el Baida takes its flat loaves, giving the master of the establishment one loaf in ten by way of payment. I recall the sale of horses, at which a fine raking mare with her foal at foot fetched fifty-four dollars in Moorish silver, a sum less than nine English pounds.

And I seem to see, even now as I write, the Spanish woman with cruel painted face, sitting at the open casement of an old house near the Spanish church, thrumming her guitar, and beneath her, by the roadside, a beggar clad, like the patriarch of old, in a garment of many colours, that made his black face seem blacker than any I have seen in Africa. Then D?r el Baida sinks behind the water-port gate, the strong Moorish rowers bend to their oars, their boat laps through the dark-blue water, and we are back aboard the ship again, in another atmosphere, another world. Passengers are talking as it might be they had just returned from their first visit to a Zoological Garden. Most of them have seen no more than the dirt and ugliness--their vision noted no other aspect--of the old-world port. The life that has not altered for centuries, the things that make it worth living to all the folk we leave behind,--these are matters in which casual visitors to Morocco have no concern. They resent suggestion that the affairs of "niggers" can call for serious consideration, far less for appreciation or interest of any sort.

Happily Djedida is not far away. At daybreak we are securely anchored before the town whose possession by the Portuguese is recorded to this hour by the fine fortifications and walls round the port. We slip over the smooth water in haste, that we may land before the sun is too high in the heavens. It is not without a thrill of pleasure that I hear the ship's shrill summons and see the rest of the passengers returning.

In the days that precede departure--and in Morocco they are always apt to be numerous--I seek to enter into the life of Djedida. Sometimes we stroll to the custom-house, where grave and dignified Moors sit in the bare, barnlike office that opens upon the waste ground beyond the port. There they deliver my shot guns after long and dubious scrutiny of the order from the British Consulate at Tangier. They also pass certain boxes of stores upon production of a certificate testifying that they paid duty on arrival at the Diplomatic Capital. These matters, trivial enough to the Western mind, are of weight and moment here, not to be settled lightly or without much consultation.

Rotting in the stores of this same custom-house are two grand pianos and an electric omnibus. The Sultan ordered them, the country paid for them,--so much was achieved by the commercial energy of the infidel,--and native energy sufficed to land them; it was exhausted by the effort. If Mulai Abd-el-Aziz wants his dearly purchased treasure, the ordering and existence of which he has probably forgotten, he must come to Mazagan for it, I am afraid, and unless he makes haste it will not be worth much. But there are many more such shipments in other ports, not to mention the unopened and forgotten packing cases at Court.

The Basha of Djedida is a little old man, very rich indeed, and the terror of the entire Dukala province. I like to watch him as he sits day by day under the wall of the Kasbah by the side of his own palace, administering what he is pleased to call justice. Soldiers and slaves stand by to enforce his decree if need be, plaintiff and defendant lie like tombstones or advertisements of patent medicines, or telegrams from the seat of war, but no sign of an emotion lights the old man's face. He tempers justice with--let us say, diplomacy. The other afternoon a French-protected subject was charged with sheep-stealing, and I went to the trial. Salam acted as interpreter for me. The case was simple enough. The defendant had received some hundred sheep from plaintiff to feed and tend at an agreed price. From time to time he sent plaintiff the sad news of the death of certain rams, always among the finest in the flock. Plaintiff, a farmer in good circumstances, testified to the Unity of Allah and was content to pray for better luck, until news was brought to him that most of the sheep reported dead were to be seen in the Friday market fetching good prices. The news proved true, the report of their death was no more than the defendant's intelligent anticipation of events, and the action arose out of it. To be sure, the plaintiff had presented a fine sheep to the Basha, but the defendant was a French subject by protection, and the Vice-Consul of his adopted nation was there to see fair play. Under these circumstances the defendant lied with an assurance that must have helped to convince himself; his friends arrived in the full number required by the law, and testified with cheerful mendacity in their companion's favour. The Basha listened with attention while the litigants swore strange oaths and abused each other very thoroughly. Then he silenced both parties with a word, and gave judgment for the defendant. There was no appeal, though, had the defendant been an unprotected subject, the plaintiff's knife had assuredly entered into the final settlement of this little matter. But the plaintiff knew that an attack upon a French prot?g? would lead to his own indefinite imprisonment and occasional torture, to the confiscation of his goods, and to sundry other penalties that may be left unrecorded, as they would not look well in cold print. He knew, moreover, that everything is predestined, that no man may avoid Allah's decree. These matters of faith are real, not pale abstractions, in Morocco. So he was less discontented with the decision than one of his European brethren would have been in similar case--and far more philosophic regarding it.

Quite slowly we completed our outfit for the inland journey. Heaven aid the misguided Nazarene who seeks to accomplish such matters swiftly in this land of eternal afternoon. I bought an extraordinary assortment of what our American friends call "dry-goods" in the Jewish stores, from the very business-like gentlemen in charge of them. These all wore black gaberdines, black slippers, stockings that were once white, and black skull-caps over suspiciously shining love-locks. Most of the Jewish men seemed to have had smallpox; in their speech they relied upon a very base Arabic, together with worse Spanish or quite barbarous French. Djedida having no Mellah, as the Moorish ghetto is called, they were free to trade all over the town, and for rather less than a pound sterling I bought quite an imposing collection of cutlery, plate, and dishes for use on the road. It is true, as I discovered subsequently, that the spoons and forks might be crushed out of shape with one hand, that the knives would cut nothing rougher than Danish butter, and were imported from Germany with a Sheffield mark on them to deceive the natives, and that the plates and dishes were not too good to go with the cutlery. But nothing had been bought without bargaining of a more or less exciting and interesting sort, and for the bargaining no extra charge whatever was made. The little boxlike shops, with flaps that served as shutters, were ill-adapted for private purchase; there was no room for more than the owner inside, and before we had been at one for five minutes the roadway became impassable. All the idlers and beggars in that district gathered to watch the strangers, and the Maalem was the only one who could keep them at bay. Salam would merely threaten to cuff an importunate rogue who pestered us, but the Maalem would curse him so fluently and comprehensively, and extend the anathema so far in either direction, from forgotten ancestors to unborn descendants, that no native could stand up for long against the flashing eye, the quivering forefinger, the foul and bitter tongue of him. There were times, then and later on, when the Maalem seemed to be some Moorish connection of Captain Kettle's family, and after reflecting upon my experience among hard-swearing men of many nations, seafarers, land-sharks, beach-combers and the rest, I award the Maalem pride of place. You will find him to-day in Djedida, baking his bread with the aid of the small apprentice who looks after the shop when he goes abroad, or enjoying the dreams of the haschisch eater when his work is done. He is no man's enemy, and the penalty of his shortcomings will probably fall upon no body or soul save his own. A picturesque figure, passionate yet a philosopher, patiently tolerant of blinding heat, bad roads, uncomfortable sleeping quarters and short commons, the Maalem will remain alive and real in my memory long after the kaids and wazeers and other high dignitaries of his country are no more than dimly splendid shadows, lacking altogether in individuality.

I learned to enjoy Djedida by night. Then the town was almost as silent as our camp below Mediunah had been. The ramparts left by the Portuguese and the white walls of the city itself became all of a piece, indistinct and mysterious as the darkness blended them. Late camels coming into the town to seek the security of some fandak would pad noiselessly past me; weird creatures from the under-world they seemed, on whom the ghostlike Arabs in their white djellabas were ordered to attend. Children would flit to and fro like shadows, strangely quiet, as though held in thrall even in the season of their play by the solemn aspect of the surroundings. The market-place and road to the landing-stage would be deserted, the gates of the city barred, and there was never a light to be seen save where some wealthy Moor attended by lantern-bearing slaves passed to and from his house. One night by the Kasbah the voice of a watchman broke upon the city's silence, at a time when the mueddin was at rest, and it was not incumbent upon the faithful to pray. "Be vigilant, O guardians," he cried,--"be vigilant and do not sleep." Below, by my side, on the ground, the guardians, wrapped warm in their djellabas, dreamed on, all undisturbed.

Happily we were right below the area of rebellion. In the north, round Fez and Taza, there was severe fighting, spreading thence to the Riff country. Here, people did no more than curse the Pretender in public or the Sultan in private, according to the state of their personal feelings. Communication with the south, said the Maalem, was uninterrupted; only in the north were the sons of the Illegitimate, the rebels against Allah, troubling Our Lord the Sultan. From Djedida down to the Atlas the tribes were peaceful, and would remain at rest unless Our Master should attempt to collect his taxes, in which case, without doubt, there would be trouble.

He was a busy man in these days, was the Maalem. When he was not baking bread or smoking kief he was securing mules and bringing them for our inspection. To Mr. T. Spinney, son of the British Vice-Consul in Mazagan, we owed our salvation. A master of Moghrebbin Arabic, on intimate terms with the Moors, and thoroughly conversant with the road and its requirements, he stood between me and the fiery-tongued Maalem. This mule was rejected, that saddle was returned, stirrups tied with string were disqualified, the little man's claim to have all "the money in the hand" was overruled, and the Maalem, red-hot sputtering iron in my hands, was as wax in Mr. Spinney's. My good friend and host also found Kaid M'Barak, the soldier, a tall, scorched, imperturbable warrior, who rode a brave horse, and carried a gun done up in a very tattered, old, flannel case tied with half a dozen pieces of string. The kaid's business was to strike terror into the hearts of evil men in return for a Moorish dollar a day, and to help with tent setting and striking, or anything else that might be required, in return for his food. He was a lean, gaunt, taciturn man, to whom twelve hours in the saddle brought no discomfort, and though he strove earnestly to rob me, it was only at the journey's end, when he had done his work faithfully and well. His gun seemed to be a constant source of danger to somebody, for he carried it at right angles to his horse across the saddle, and often on the road I would start to consciousness that the kaid was covering me with his be-frocked weapon. After a time one grew accustomed and indifferent to the danger, but when I went shooting in the Argan forest I left the blessed one in camp. He was convinced that he carried his gun in proper fashion, and that his duty was well done. And really he may have been right, for upon a day, when a hint of possible danger threatened, I learned to my amusement and relief that the valiant man carried no ammunition of any sort, and that the barrel of his gun was stuffed full of red calico.

Our inland tramp over, he took one day's rest at Mogador, then gathered the well-earned store of dollars into his belt and started off to follow the coast road back to Djedida. Perhaps by now the Basha has had his dollars, or the Sultan has summoned him to help fight Bu Hamara. In any case I like to think that his few weeks with us will rank among the pleasant times of his life, for he proved a patient, enduring man, and though silent, a not unedifying companion.

In the R'hamna country, on the way to the southern capital, we pitched our tents one night in a Government n'zala, or guarded camping-ground, one of many that are spread about the country for the safety of travellers. The price of corn, eggs, and chickens was amazingly high, and the Maalem explained that the n'zala was kept by some of the immediate family of Mahedi el Menebhi, who had put them there, presumably to make what profit they could. I looked very carefully at our greedy hosts. They were a rough unprepossessing crowd, but their wealth in sheep and goats alone was remarkable, and their stock was safe from molestation, for they were known to be relatives of the Sultan's chief minister, a man whose arm is long and hard-hitting. Since last autumn Menebhi has resigned his high office, reduced his household, manumitted many slaves, and gone on the great pilgrimage to Mecca, so it may be presumed that his relatives in the forsaken R'hamna country have lowered their prices. Yet, 'tis something to have a great wazeer for relative even though, for the time being, loss of favour has given him leisure for pious observances.

At length the evening came, when the last mule was selected, the last package made up, and nothing lay between us and the open road. Sleep was hard to woo. I woke before daylight, and was in the patio before the first animal arrived, or the sleepy porter had fumbled at the door of the warehouse where the luggage was stacked.

Morn in the white wake of the morning star Came furrowing all the orient into gold,

and gave to the tops of walls and battlements a momentary tinge of rose colour, a sight well worth the effort demanded by early rising. Sparrow-hawks and pigeons were fluttering over their nests on the deserted battlements, a stork eyed me with solemn curiosity from the minaret of a near mosque, and only the earliest wayfarers were astir. How slowly the men seemed to do their work, and how rapidly the morning wore on. Ropes and palmetto baskets refused to fit at the last moment, two mules were restive until their "father," the Maalem, very wide awake and energetic, cursed their religion, and reminded them that they were the children of asses renowned throughout the Moghreb for baseness and immorality. One animal was found at the last moment to be saddle-galled, and was rejected summarily, despite its "father's" frenzied assurances. Though I had been astir shortly before three, and at work soon after four, it was nearly seven o'clock when the last crooked way had been made straight, the last shwarri balanced, and the luggage mules were moving to the Dukala gate.

The crowd of curious onlookers then gave way, some few wishing us well on the journey. I daresay there were many among them, tied by their daily toil to the town, who thought with longing of the pleasant road before us, through fertile lands where all the orchards were aflower and the peasants were gathering the ripe barley, though April had yet some days to revel in. Small boys waved their hands to us, the water-carrier carrying his tight goat-skin from the wells set his cups a-tinkling, as though by way of a God-speed, and then M'Barak touched his horse with the spur to induce the bravery of a caracole, and led us away from Djedida. I drew a long breath of pleasure and relief; we were upon the road.

FOOTNOTES:

The sok is the market-place.

Kaid is a complimentary title--he was a common soldier. M'Barak means "the blessed one," and is one of the names usually set apart for slaves.

Base copper coins, of which a penny will purchase a score.

It is fair to say that this is no more than one of many stories relating to the great Wazeer's early days. Another says that he started life as a soldier. There is no doubt that he is a man of extraordinary talent.

A pannier made of palmetto.

ON THE MOORISH ROAD

ON THE MOORISH ROAD

With the brief gladness of the Palms, that tower and sway o'er seething plain, Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade, and welling spring, and rushing rain; 'Tis their's to pass with joy and hope, whose souls shall ever thrill and fill Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,-- visions of Allah's Holy Hill.

We travel slowly, for the Maalem "father" of the pack-mules--guide, philosopher, and trusted companion--says that haste kills strong men, and often repeats a Moorish proverb which tells us that walking is better than running, and that of all things sitting still is best. If Salam and I, reaching a piece of level sward by the side of some orchard or arable land when the heat of the day has passed, venture to indulge in a brisk canter, the Maalem's face grows black as his eyes.

"Have a care," he said to me one evening, "for this place is peopled by djinoon, and if they are disturbed they will at least kill the horses and mules, and leave us to every robber among the hills." Doubtless the Maalem prophesied worse things than this, but I have no Arabic worth mention, and Salam, who acts as interpreter, possesses a very fair amount of tact. I own to a vulgar curiosity that urges me to see a djin if I can, so, after this warning, Salam and I go cantering every late afternoon when the Enemy, as some Moors call the sun, is moving down towards the west, and the air gets its first faint touch of evening cool. Fortunately or unfortunately, the evil spirits never appear however, unless unnoticed by me in the harmless forms of storks, stock-doves, or sparrow-hawks.

In this fertile province of the Dukala, in the little-known kingdom of the victorious Sultan, Mulai Abd-el-Aziz, there are delightful stretches of level country, and the husbandman's simplest toil suffices to bring about an abundant harvest. Unhappily a great part of the province is not in permanent cultivation at all. For miles and miles, often as far as the eye can see, the land lies fallow, never a farmhouse or village to be seen, nothing save some zowia or saint's tomb, with white dome rising within four white walls to stare undaunted at the fierce African sun, while the saint's descendants in the shelter of the house live by begging from pious visitors. Away from the fertility that marks the neighbourhood of the douars, one finds a few spare bushes, suddra, retam, or colocynth, a few lizards darting here and there, and over all a supreme silence that may be felt, even as the darkness that troubled Egypt in days of old. The main track, not to be dignified by the name of road, is always to be discerned clearly enough, at least the Maalem is never in doubt when stray paths, leading from nowhere to the back of beyond, intersect it.

At long intervals we pass a n'zala, a square empty space surrounded by a zariba of thorn and prickly pear. The village, a few wattled huts with conical roofs, stands by its side. Every n'zala is a Government shelter for travellers; you may pitch your tent within the four walls, and even if you remain outside and hire guards the owners of the huts are responsible for your safety, with their worldly goods, perhaps with their lives. I have tried the interior of the Moorish n'zalas, where all too frequently you must lie on unimagined filth, often almost within reach of camel-drivers and muleteers, who are so godly that they have no time to be clean, and I have concluded that the drawbacks outweigh the advantages. Now I pitch my tent on some cleaner spot, and pay guards from the village to stretch their blankets under its lee and go to sleep. If there are thieves abroad the zariba will not keep them out, and if there are no thieves a tired traveller may forget his fatigue.

On the road we meet few wayfarers, and those we encounter are full of suspicion. Now and again we pass some country kaid or khalifa out on business. As many as a dozen well-armed slaves and retainers may follow him, and, as a rule, he rides a well-fed Barb with a fine crimson saddle and many saddle cloths. Over his white djellaba is a blue selham that came probably from Manchester; his stirrups are silver or plated. He travels unarmed and seldom uses spurs--a packing needle serves as an effective substitute. When he has spurs they are simply spear-heads--sharp prongs without rowels. The presence of Unbelievers in the country of the True Faith is clearly displeasing to him, but he is nearly always diplomat enough to return my laboured greeting, though doubtless he curses me heartily enough under his breath. His road lies from village to village, his duty to watch the progress of the harvest for his overlord. Even the locusts are kinder than the country kaids. But so soon as the kaid has amassed sufficient wealth, the governor of his province, or one of the high wazeers in the Sultan's capital, will despoil him and sell his place to the highest bidder, and in the fulness of time the Sultan will send for that wazeer or governor, and treat him in similar fashion. "Mektub," it is written, and who shall avoid destiny?

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