Like the Walrus and the Carpenter, we talk of many things, Salam acting as interpreter. The interests of my guests are simple: good harvests, abundant rain, and open roads are all they desire. They have never seen the sea or even a big Moorish town, but they have heard of these things from travellers and traders who have passed their nights in the n'zala in times recent or remote, and sometimes they appeal to me to say if these tales are true. Are there great waters of which no man may drink—waters that are never at rest? Do houses with devils (? steam engines) in them go to and fro upon the face of these waters? Are there great cities so big that a man cannot walk from end to end in half a day? I testify to the truth of these things, and the headman praises Allah, who has done what seemed good to him in lands both near and far. It is, I fear, the headman's polite way of saying that Saul is among the prophets. My revolver, carefully unloaded, is passed from hand to hand, its uses and capacities are known even to these wild people, and the weapon creates more interest than the tent and all its varied equipment. Naturally enough, it turns the talk to war and slaughter, and I learn that the local kaid has an endless appetite for thieves and other children of shameless women, that guns are fired very often within his jurisdiction, and baskets full of heads have been collected after a purely local fight. All this is said with a quiet dignity, as though to remind me that I have fallen among people of some distinction, and the effect is only spoilt by the recollection that nearly every headman has the same tale to tell. Sultans, pretenders, wazeers, and high court functionaries are passed in critical review, their faults and failings noted. I cannot avoid the conclusion that the popular respect is for the strong hand—that civilised government would take long to clear itself of the imputation of cowardice. The local kaid is always a tyrant, but he is above all things a man, keen-witted, adventurous, prompt to strike, and determined to bleed his subjects white. So the men of the village, while suffering so keenly from his arbitrary methods, look with fear and wonder at their master, respect him secretly, and hope the day will come when by Allah's grace they too will be allowed to have mastery over their fellows and to punish others as they have been punished. Strength is the first and greatest of all virtues, so far as they can see, and cunning and ferocity are necessary gifts in a land where every man's hand is against his neighbour.
TRAVELLERS BY NIGHT
The last cup of green tea has been taken, the charcoal, no longer refreshed by the bellows, has ceased to glow, around us the native fires are out. The hour of repose is upon the night, and the great athletic villagers rise, resume their slippers, and pass with civil salutation to their homes. Beyond the tent our guards are sleeping soundly in their blankets; the surrounding silence is overwhelming. The grave itself could hardly be more still. Even the hobbled animals are at rest, and we enter into the enveloping silence for five or six dreamless hours.
The horses stir and wake me; I open the tent and call the men. Our guards rouse themselves and retire to their huts. The Maalem, no worse, to outward seeming, for the night's debauch, lights the charcoal. It is about half-past three, the darkness has past but the sun has not risen, the land seems plunged in heavy sleep, the air is damp and chill. Few pleasures attach to this early rising, but it is necessary to be on the road before six o'clock in order to make good progress before the vertical rays of the sun bid us pause and seek what shelter we can find. Two hours is not a long time in which to strike tents, prepare breakfast,—a solid affair of porridge, omelette, coffee, marmalade and biscuits,—pack everything, and load the mules. We must work with a will, or the multi-coloured pageant in the eastern sky will have passed before we are on the road again.
Early as it is we are not astir much before the village. Almost as soon as I am dressed the shepherd boys and girls are abroad, playing on their reed flutes as they drive the flocks to pasture from the pens to which they were brought at sundown. They go far afield for food if not for water, but evening must see their animals safely secured once more, for if left out overnight the nearest predatory tribesmen would carry them off. There is no security outside the village, and no village is safe from attack when there is unrest in the province. A cattle raid is a favourite form of amusement among the warlike tribes of the Moorish country, being profitable, exciting, and calculated to provoke a small fight.
A group of interested observers assembles once more, reinforced by the smallest children, who were too frightened to venture out of doors last night. Nothing disturbs the little company before we leave the camp. The headman, grave and dignified as ever, receives payment for corn, straw, chickens, milk, eggs, water, and guards, a matter of about ten shillings in English money, and a very large sum indeed for such a tiny village to receive. The last burden is fastened on the patient mules, girths and straps and belts are examined, and we pass down the incline to the main road and turn the horses' heads to the Atlas Mountains.