perfume.

I remember, too, the covered shed containing the mill that grinds the
flour for the town, and the curious little bakehouse to which Dár 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 Dár
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