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.

[Illustration: PILGRIMS ON A STEAMER]

By this time it is afternoon, but the intervening hours have not been
wasted. I have found the Maalem, master of a bakehouse, a short,
olive-skinned, wild, and wiry little man, whose yellowed eyes and
contracting pupils tell a tale of haschisch and kief that his twitching
fingers confirm. But he knows the great track stretching some hundred and
twenty miles into the interior up to Red Marrakesh; he is "the father
and mother" of mules and horses, animals that brighten the face of man by
reason of their superlative qualities, and he is prepared to undertake the
charge of all matters pertaining to a journey over this roadless country.
His beasts are fit to journey to Tindouf in the country of the Draa, so
fine is their condition; their saddles and accoutrements would delight the
Sultan's own ministers. By Allah, the inland journey will be a picnic!
Quite gravely, I have professed to believe all he says, and my
reservations, though many, are all mental.

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.