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.

Dár el Baida, most Moorish of seaports, received us in the early morning.
The wind had fallen, and the heavy surf-boats of the port could land us
easily. We went on shore past the water-gate and the custom-house that
stands on the site of the stores erected by the society of the Gremios
Majores when Charles V. ruled Spain. Dár el Baida seemed to have straggled
over as much ground as Tangier, but the ground itself was flat and full of
refuse. The streets were muddy and unpaved, cobble stones strove
ineffectually to disguise drains, and one felt that the sea breezes alone
stood between the city and some such virulent epidemic as that which smote
Tangier less than ten years ago. But withal there was a certain
picturesque quality about Dár el Baida that atoned for more obvious
faults, and the market-place afforded a picture as Eastern in its main
features as the tired Western eye could seek. Camel caravans had come in
from the interior for the Monday market. They had tramped from the
villages of the Zair and the Beni Hassan tribes, bringing ripe barley for
sale, though the spring months had not yet passed. From places near at