And so the Governors waited on patiently, their followers almost starving, and I expect themselves not too much fed, for the Kaid’s servants ate or sold all the provisions which the Chamberlain issued each day to feed the various “guests.” How the poor devils in the prison underground fared I do not know, but now and then a bucket with bread and couscousou was let down to them, and I believe they flew on it like half-starved jackals on a dead donkey outside a Moorish town. Although a semi-prisoner, the Sherif from Sus was still a holy man, and therefore I sent Mohammed-el-Hosein to take refuge with him till all talk of fetters, dungeons, stick and shaving beards was past. This taking refuge (to “zoug,” as it is called) is common in Morocco. At times upon a journey, some man will rush and seize your stirrup, and will not let go till you promise him protection, which, when you do (for it is not easy to refuse), you make yourself an Old Man of the Sea, an Incubus, who has proprietary rights in you, and perhaps follows you to your journey’s end.
The patience of the three Sheikhs gave me an example, and I endeavoured to take our enforced detention as quietly as they did, though without success. It was truly wonderful to see them sitting all day long, half-starved, outside their tent, taking the sun and praying regularly, yet without ostentation, telling their beads, listening to the Sherif read in a low voice from his little sacred book, and praising Allah (I have no doubt) consumedly.
And so the day went past without an incident, except that towards evening, as they drove the cattle home, two tame moufflons came with them, as goats do in a field at home. These moufflons (Oudad) are rather larger than a large goat, almost the colour of a Scotch red deer; a tuft of hair about a span in length grows on their withers and on their dewlap is another of the same size; the eyes are large and full, and very wide, and their chief feature is an enormous pair of curving horns. A wandering Sherif (in this case a kind of fakir) from Taserouelt told me that “they often throw themselves off a cliff a hundred feet in height, and fall upon their horns, and then jump up at once, and run off faster than gazelles run when the hunter shouts to his horse.” Just before evening we met the Kaid’s secretary, a quiet, handsome, literary man, who came and sat with us, and talked long about books, and grew quite friendly with Lutaif on his producing the poems of el Faredi. [166a] They read aloud alternately in a sort of rhythmic sing-song way, pleasing to listen to, and which is taught in Arab schools. Though I did not understand more than a word in five, the language is so fine, I enjoyed it more than all the matchless eloquence of a debate in Parliament.
To read in Arabic is a set art; to read and understand a different branch of scholarship; but these two Talebs both read and understood, and after an hour’s intonation, strophe about, they marvelled at one another’s learning, and like two doughty chieftains in an Homeric fight, stopped often to compliment and flatter one another. “By Allah, it seems impossible a Christian can read and understand el Faredi.” “Strange that a Taleb of the Atlas should know the literal [166b] language as if he were an Eastern” [166c] and the like. The “Taleb of the Atlas” explained he had been the pilgrimage, and lived two years in Mecca, and whilst there (although a Berber) had studied deeply and perfected himself in the knowledge of the East as far as possible. Lutaif explained that though a Christian he was of Arab race, and that he worshipped God, as “Allah,” in the same way as did Mohammedans. “Then,” said the Taleb, half laughing, “either you are a Moslem in disguise, or else a Taleb who has become a Christian.” Seeing the conversation was becoming rather strained, I interrupted and broke it up; but when the Taleb left, Lutaif borrowed my knife and managed to haggle off his beard, though not without abrasion of the cuticle, and though without it he looked less like an Arab, still with his moustache, which he refused to sacrifice, he looked so like a Turk that, as regards appearance, little was gained by all his sufferings.
The next day found us with the same postal address, still without having seen the Kaid, and without a definite idea of his intentions. Most of the people seemed to be certain that a messenger had gone to the Sultan for instructions on our case, but both the Chamberlain, the Taleb, and the Captain of the Guard denied with circumstance, and perjured themselves as cheerfully, and with as much delight in perjury for the mere sake of perjury, as any minister answering a question from the front bench of the grandmother of all parliaments. We passed the time reading el Faredi and an Arabic version of the Psalms; writing and smoking, walking up and down the Maidan, sitting underneath the trees, and watching the Kaid’s horses and mules being driven to the river to bathe and drink. Although a Berber and a mountaineer, the Kaid was fond of horses, and had a stud of about eighty horses and as many mules. Negroes led down the horses all “lither-fat,” for our lord the Kaid had “long lain in,” and there had been no riding in the glen for the past month. Blacks, bays, and chestnuts, with a white or two, and a light cream colour of the kind called by the Spaniards “Huevo de pato,” that is duck’s egg. All rather “chunky,” as the Texans say, some running up to about sixteen hands, mostly all with long tails sweeping upon the ground and manes which fell quite to the point of the shoulder in the older horses. Their tails all set on low (a mark of the Barb breed), their eyes large and prominent, heads rather large, ears long, thin and intelligent, always in motion, backs rather short, round in the barrel, and well ribbed up, straight in the pastern, and feet rather small and high, the consequence of being bred on stony ground.
I learned the black [168a] (el Dum) is best for show, but bad in temper, especially if he has no white hairs about him. Ride him not to war, for when the sun shines hot, and water is hard to find, he cannot suffer, and leaves his rider in the power of his enemy. Still the black without moon or stars (white hairs) is a horse for kings, but he fears rocky ground. The chestnut [168b] when he flies beneath the sun, it is the wind. It was a favourite colour with the Prophet, and therefore to be desired of all good Moslems and good horsemen.
The roan is a pool of blood, his rider will be overtaken but will never overtake. The light chestnut (Zfar el Jehudi, the Jews’ yellow) is not for men to ride, he brings ill luck. No wise man would ride a horse with a white spot in front of the saddle, for such a horse is as fatal as the most violent poison. In the same way no prudent man would buy a horse with a white face and stockings, for he carries his own shroud with him.
The white is a colour for princes, but not for war. When you advance afar off your enemy makes ready for you.
The bay is the pearl of colours, for the bay is hardiest and most sober of all horses. Says the Emir Abd-el-Kader, “If they tell you a horse jumped down a precipice without injury, ask if he was a bay, and if they answer yes, believe them.” Lastly, the Emir says with reason, “Speak to your horses as a man speaks to his child, and they will correct their faults which have incurred your anger, for they understand the mouth of man.”
Armed with these maxims and on the look-out for others, I was not dull as long as the horses were in sight. Sometimes a boy would ride them in to swim in the swift current, snorting and plunging till they lost their feet, and then their heads appeared out of the water, their backs almost awash, the boys clinging to them like monkeys as they struck out for the bank, raising a wave like small torpedo boats. At other times two would break loose and fight, screaming and standing up, or rushing in, seize one another by the necks like bulldogs, when their respective negroes dodged outside, like forward players in a football scrimmage waiting for the ball, trying to catch their ropes but afraid to venture in between them. Generally the fight was ended by an Arab or a Berber rushing up armed with a thick stick and a handful of round stones, with which he beat and pelted them till they let go their hold. Others again would break loose all alone, and career about the sandy beach, head and tail up, or gallop through the corn, their attendant running after them in agony till they were captured. The most sedate walked delicately as they were Agags down to the water, plunged their muzzles deep into the stream and drank as if they wished to drain the river dry, looked up and drank again three times, then turned, and after executing several perfunctory bounds, lay down and rolled in the wet sand and quietly walked home beside their negro, not deigning even to look at any other horse, then disappeared under the horseshoe gateway to the inner courtyard where they lived. The mules were not so interesting, though valuable, fetching more money than the best horse, and if accomplished “pacers,” often bringing two or three hundred dollars, whereas a horse rarely exceeds a hundred and fifty at the most; but still they have an air as of a donkey, which makes them quite uninteresting, for they are lacking in the donkey’s inner grace.