It was past ten at night, when alone, with my Moorish guide, I found myself treading the long narrow streets of Mogador.
The wind howled and the watch-dogs barked; it was so dark that we could scarcely grope our way, no human being was about; we went up one street and down another, stealing along our way; as if on some house-breaking expedition; and I began to feel suspicious, fearing a trap might be laid for me. Still, I had confidence in the honour of the Moors, I said to my guide.
"When shall we reach your master's?"
Guide.—"God knows; be quiet!"
We continued going through street after street. It was now bitter cold, and a few drops of rain fell from the cutting wing of the north wind.
To my Guide again.
"Where is the house?"
Guide.—"Follow me, don't talk!" After we had passed other streets, "Is this the street?"
Guide.—"Eskut! (hold your tongue)."
We now entered a low dilapidated gateway, with a broken panelled door, groaning on its hinges.