Three robust men sprang from their horses. The poor young fellow, without a word, without even lifting his eyes to the face of his judge, threw himself face downward on the ground, according to the custom, with arms and legs stretched out.
It all happened in a moment. The stick was yet in the air, when the Commandant and others had sprung forward, and declared that the brutal punishment could not be permitted. The caid bowed his head. The lad rose from the ground, pale and convulsed, looking with an expression of astonishment and terror from his preservers to the caid.
“Go,” said the interpreter; “you are free!”
“Oh!” he cried, with an indescribable accent, and vanished. We resumed our march. I have seen a man killed, but never have I experienced so profound a feeling of horror as that which assailed me at the sight of that half-naked boy stretched on the ground to receive his fifty blows with a stick. And after the horror, my blood rushed to my face with indignation against the caid, the Sultan, Morocco, and barbarism. But it is true that second thoughts are best. After a moment, I thought—and we, how many years is it since we abolished the stick? How many since it was in use in Austria, in Prussia, and in others of the European States? This reflection calmed my anger, and left me only a sentiment of bitterness. If any one wants to know in what fashion the bastinado is carried on in Morocco, it is enough to say that sometimes, the operation over, the victim is carried to the cemetery.
From thence to Zeguta the caravan passed from hill to hill, from valley to valley, through fields of grain and barley, and verdant plains surrounded by aloes, cactus, wild olive, dwarf oaks, arbutus, myrtle, and other flowering shrubs. We saw no living soul nor any tents. The country was solitary, silent, and all overgrown, like an enchanted garden. Coming to a rising ground we saw the blue summits of the mountains of Fez suddenly appearing, as if they had thrust up their heads to look at us; and at the hottest time in the day we reached Zeguta.
It proved to be one of the most beautiful of the places we had yet seen. The tents were pitched on the slope of a hill in a large rocky cavity, in the form of an amphitheatre, around the sides of which the accidents of the ground and the passage of men and animals had formed something resembling rows of seats or steps, which at that time were swarming with Arabs seated in a semicircle as if looking on at a spectacle. In front a broad valley of shell-like form opened with all its lovely variety of color, according to the cultivation, in squares of green, yellow, red, violet, and white, like a great chess-board made of silk and velvet. With the glass could be seen, on the more distant hills, here a string of tents, there a white cuba among the aloe plants; beyond, a camel, a crouching Arab, cattle, a group of women—a life so still and scattered that it threw into relief the profound peacefulness of the scene better than complete solitude could have done. And over all this beauty was spread a white and burning sky that dazzled the eyes and obliged one to stand with drooping head.
But I remember the encampment at Zeguta less for its beauty than for an experiment we made there with the famous kif.
Kif, for those who do not know it, is the leaf of a kind of hemp, called hashish, known all over the East for its intoxicating quality. It is much in use in Morocco, and it may be said that all those Moors and Arabs who are met in the streets of the cities, dragging themselves about, and looking with a dull, stupefied expression, like men who have just had a blow on the head, are victims of this deleterious drug. The greater part of them smoke it, mixed with a little tobacco, in small clay pipes; others eat it in the form of a sweetmeat called madjun, made of butter, honey, nutmeg, and cloves. The effects of it are most curious. Doctor Miguerez, who had tried it, often told me about it, saying, among other things, that he had been seized with a fit of irresistible laughter, and that he imagined himself to be lifted from the ground, so that passing under a lofty archway, he had stooped his head for fear of striking it. Stimulated by curiosity, I had more than once asked him to give me a dose of madjun—a little, not enough to make me lose my wits, but enough to let me experience at least one or two of the wonders that he related. The good doctor at first excused himself, declaring that it was better to try it at Fez; but he yielded at last to my entreaties, and the experiment was made at Zeguta, where, much against his will, he finally presented me with the wished-for morsel on a small plate. We were at table, and, if I am not mistaken, the two artists shared it with me, but I do not remember how it affected them. It was a soft paste of a violet color, and smelt like pomatum. For about half an hour, from the soup to the fruit, I felt nothing, and chaffed the doctor for his timidity. But he only said, “Wait a bit!” and smiled. Presently I was conscious of a feeling of great hilarity, and knew that I was talking very quickly. Then I laughed at every thing that others said, or that I said myself; every word seemed to me the purest wit and humor; I laughed at the servants, at my companions, at the figures on the plates, at the forms of the bottles, at the color of the cheese I was eating. Suddenly I was aware that my wits were wandering, and I tried to fix my thoughts upon something serious. I thought of the boy who was to have been bastinadoed in the morning. Poor boy! I was moved with compassion. I should have liked to take him to Italy, educate him, give him a career. I loved him like a son. And the caid, too, Abu-Ben-Gileli, poor old man! I loved the caid like a father. And the soldiers of the escort!—all good fellows, ready to defend me, to risk their lives for me. I loved them like brothers. I loved the Algerines also, and why not? I thought; are they not of the same race?—and what a race! We are all brothers; we ought to love each other; and I threw my arms round the neck of the doctor, who was laughing. From this delight I suddenly fell into a deep and vague melancholy. I remembered the persons whom I had offended, the pain I had inflicted on those who loved me, and was oppressed by poignant remorse and regret; I seemed to hear voices in my ears speaking in tones of loving reproach; I repented, I asked pardon, I furtively wiped away big tears that were in my eyes. Then there rose in my mind a crowd of strange and contrasted images that vanished as quickly as they came; forgotten friends of my childhood, words of a dialect unused for twenty years, faces of women, my old regiment, William the Silent, Paris, my publisher Barbera, a beaver hat that I had when I was a boy, the Acropolis at Athens, the bill of an innkeeper at Seville, and a thousand other absurdities. I remember confusedly the amused looks of my companions at table. From time to time I closed my eyes, and opened them again, unconscious of the passage of time, and ignorant whether I had slept or not. My thoughts sparkled and went out like fire-flies, intricate and inextricable. At one moment I saw Ussi with his face lengthened like a reflection in a convex mirror; the vice-consul, with his visage a foot in breadth; all the others attenuated, swollen, contorted, like fantastic caricatures, making the most impossible grimaces; and I laughed, and wagged my head, and dreamed, and thought that they were all crazy, that we were in another world, that what I saw was not true, that I was ill, that I could not understand what had happened, that I did not know where I was. Then all was darkness and silence. When I came to myself I was in my tent, stretched on the bed, and the doctor, standing beside me with a candle in his hand, was saying, with a smile, “It is over; but let it be the last, as it was the first.”
CHAPTER X.
FROM ZEGUTA TO SAGAT.
Whilst I was running here and there in search of my mule—which, I do not know how or why, was at last found among the baggage—the members of the embassy departed. I still had time to come up with them, but in leaving the camp and going down a rocky path, my mule stumbled, the saddle slipped, and literature, as represented in my person, was precipitated to the ground. It took half an hour to set matters straight again, and meantime, adieu to the embassy! I had to make the journey alone, followed afar off by a limping servitor, who could hardly arrive in time, in case of an assault, to see me breathe my last breath. May the will of Allah be done! The country is deserted, and the sky cloudy. From time to time I can see, on the summit of distant heights, a gay cavalcade, among which I recognize the Ambassador’s white horse, and Selim’s red caftan; and then I do not feel so much alone; but the cavalcade vanishes, and solitude once more oppresses my heart. In an hour’s time I rejoin the rear-guard of twelve horsemen, led by old Abu-Ben-Gileli, the caid, who gives me a terrible glance that I feel all down my spine. I smile with humility and pass on. Coming out of the lovely valley on which our encampment looked, I enter another spacious valley, flanked by steep hills clothed with aloe and olive, forming two great green walls to the right and left of a broad straight road, closed at the end by a curtain of blue mountains. I meet a few Arabs, who stop and look amazed at seeing me without an escort. Will they attack me, or no? One goes to a tree, and hastily tearing off a branch, runs toward me with it. It has come! I stop my mule and grasp my pistol. He laughs, and hands me the branch, explaining that it is to beat my lazy mule with. At that moment two soldiers of the escort come galloping to meet me; my hour is not yet come. The two soldiers place themselves one on either side, and drive forward my quadruped with blows from the butts of their muskets, saying: Embasceador! Embasceador! The Ambassador has sent them back to see what has become of me. They deserve a reward. I stop and offer them a small bottle of wine which I take from my pocket. They say neither yes nor no, but look smiling at each other, and then sign to me that they have never drunk wine. “Try it,” I say with a gesture. One takes the bottle, pours a few drops in the palm of his hand, licks it up, and remains thoughtful for a moment. The other does the same. Then they laugh, look at each other, and make signs that it is good. “Drink, then.” One empties half the bottle at a gulp; the other finishes it; then they each place a hand on their stomach, and turn up their eyes to heaven. We resume our road. We meet Arabs, men, women, and children, who all look at me with surprise. One of them says something, which is answered by the soldiers with an emphatic negative. He said, “Here is a Christian who has been robbing the Ambassador.”