the throats of all foreign wayfarers quite cheerfully, if the job could be
accomplished without fear of reprisals. It is certain that they despise
them for Unbelievers, _i.e._ Christians or Jews, condemned to the pit; but
in spite of all considerations they must have news of the outer world.

When the moon comes out and the Great Bear constellation is shining above
our heads as though its sole duty in heaven were to light the camp, there
is a strong temptation to ramble. I am always sure that I can find the
track, or that Salam will be within hail should it be lost. How quickly
the tents pass out of sight. The path to the hills lies by way of little
pools where the frogs have a croaking chorus that Aristophanes might have
envied. On the approach of strange footsteps they hurry off the flat rocks
by the pool, and one hears a musical plash as they reach water. Very soon
the silence is resumed, and presently becomes so oppressive that it is a
relief to turn again and see our modest lights twinkling as though in
welcome.

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.

[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE KASBAH, TANGIER]

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