After sufficient adulation had been bestowed on the Sultan's skill, they returned to where they had left the foot-men, and the whole party took the road to the rendezvous. The gazelles and hares were slung on mules, and the partridges and grouse carried by the men on foot. After passing the plain, they came to a precipitous descent down to the Valley of the Tensift; the slopes were clothed with the dark evergreen foliage of the Argan, studded with trees of Sifsaf, whose leaves appear of glittering silver; with a palm here and there shooting into the sky. The banks of the river were brilliant with wild flowers, and clumps of rose-laurel (Oleander) were reflected in its waters. At a distance down the valley was seen the white-domed sanctuary of Sidi Bou Shaib, and near it, on a mound under a spreading fig-tree, were the white tents, pitched in a grove. The cavalcade wound slowly down the steep path, satiated with sport, but were tempted to cast off their hawks in pursuit of the ducks and widgeons that rose in flocks from the islets and pools. The instinct of water-fowl is very remarkable. Directly the duck sees the falcon swoop, he shuts his wings, and drops like a stone into the water, followed by the hawk, who is only driven from the pursuit by the splashing water. One falcon showed great sagacity—having been twice baffled by this ruse, he took his station on a crag bordering the stream, until another flight came swiftly down. Motionless, he let them pass, and then, dropping from his position, shot along the ground in their track, and overtaking them, darted upwards, turned on his back, struck his talons into the breast of his victim, and bore it off in triumph. Arrived at the camp, the Sultan retired to his tent, and the whole party, as the evening advanced, spread their carpets under the shade of the trees. The soldiers collected in groups, to drink and smoke and enjoy themselves after the fatigues of the day. It is true the Koran forbids wine and spirits, but there is not a Moor, from the Sultan downwards, who does not indulge in them whenever they can procure them. Mandolines and other instruments were produced, and Arabian Nights' tales were recited; Arab ballads were sung and listened to with excited interest by the several parties.
"Ya Mohammed!" said Muktar, a Moorish soldier, "that old darweesh Achmed is always dinning us with his Merjana and the Forty Thieves, and Kalifa the fisherman, which we and our fathers have been hearing since the days of Haroun Er Raschid (on whom peace). Now let us have a song. Sing, O Cassim, son of the Arab, sing a song of the tent. Had you as many fleas in your tents as we have in the fondak? if so, you were wise to leave them."
Cassim was an Arab from the south, who had settled in the province for some years, and had entered the Sultan's service as a soldier, not without lingering regrets for the scenes of his early home. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he took up the instrument—
"I will sing, O Muktar, what you cannot understand; but you will—the noise."
He then struck the cords, and broke forth into a song, evidently improvised for the occasion—a talent which is not uncommon among this people.
THE ARAB'S SONG.
"Oh, for my long-lost desert sands,
Where the ostrich alone doth dwell
And no tree stains its broad expanse,
Save the date-tree by the well,
The well,
Save the date-tree by the well.
Oh! why did I leave the desert wide
In gloomy towns to dwell?
And the black tents of my father's tribe,
And the maiden by the well,—
The well,
And the maiden by the well?
There, is naught to break the desert fair,
As far as the eye can see,
And the Arab is lord of earth and air;
Oh, the desert is for the free,—
The free,—
Oh, the desert is for the free!"
"Ya Beledee! O my country!" said Cassim, as he laid down the mandoline, "when shall I again see your bright sands?"