I am off for the exalted Court of His Sherifian Majesty Sultan Mulai Abderahman, and alas! it is Tuesday, an unlucky day for ‘the faithful’: for ‘Telatsa felatsa,’ say the Moors—on the third day (Tuesday) all fails; but good omens have attended the start, and, as I am taught by my favourite trooper, Kaid Abd-el-Kerim, now snoring at my tent door, good omens such as I have experienced this morning will counterbalance the unlucky day: ‘God forbid,’ said he, ‘that its name should be repeated.’
Yes, as I put my foot in the stirrup, a holy dervish, one who would be profanely called in Europe a madman, rushed up and threw his patchwork and party-coloured mantle over me, and, lifting up his hand towards heaven, cried out, ‘God’s blessing and the Sultan’s favour be with you!’ I threw his Holiness a small coin, for no doubt I had deprived him of much virtue,—at least I should suppose so by the otherwise unaccountable creeping and itching I experienced; but perhaps my fancy may have misled me.
Kaid ‘Bu Jebel’ (‘the Father of the Mountain,’ grandfather, I suppose, of the Mouse!), with his doughty followers, compose my escort—some thirty in all. I found them drawn up in zig-zag line in the little Sok (market-place), headed, though not commanded, by young Sid Abd-el-Malek, the son of my old friend Kaid Ben Abu, governor of Rif, who, at my particular request, is to accompany us.
In the outer market-place all the corps of foreign Representatives, a host of chevaliers, but very mal à cheval, joined our party, and a scene commenced, which continued till they left us, of snorting, rearing, kicking, and exclamations. Apologies, mille pardonizing, ‘et mille et mille’ were offered, when the heels of one of their chargers passed within an inch of my knee-pan.
Powder-play was commenced by the Kaid, and some of my colleagues became suddenly pedestrians. I think I can match any one of them on horseback, although the pen may yield. God be praised! we parted without injury.
An honest countryman from the village of Suanni, on passing by, offered me his bowl of milk to drink. It was not to be refused, and as I lifted the weighty earthen vessel to my mouth, my horse made a slight plunge, and a copious libation gushed over my gilded armour[7] and accoutrements.
‘Oh! what good fortune,’ shouted my escort. ‘Peace and plenty!’ Omen the second.
Our baggage had started some time before us, and had halted at ‘Ain Dalia,’ or ‘the fountain of the vine;’ the encampment, consisting of some thirteen tents, enlivened the scene and the wild country around.
A camp is a pretty sight, and these people, lately enfranchised, as it were, from their nomad life, well understand the arrangements and economy expedient on such occasions. Our nags were soon picketed round the tents, and the camp attendants, drawn up in line, called down, as I approached, God’s blessing on their work, with a prayer for a safe journey and return.
A quarrel or two, with much screaming and uttering of the most guttural sounds, followed this momentary calm. The Moors are children, and children will quarrel. Kaddor swore at the Hadj’s great-great-grandmother, and the Hadj burnt all Kaddor’s ancestors. Their friends intervened, and there was much mediation, but peace could not be effected. My turn then came, and I said, ‘God’s curse on the devil, who causes men’s hearts to be blackened by passion. Love each other, as God loveth you.’ So the Hadj gave Kaddor a hearty buss, and Kaddor, with pouting lips, kissed the Hadj’s grizzly beard, and each cursed the devil.