Tafilet

With light hearts we set out briskly upon the march, for although we had no hopes of reaching the Sultan’s camp that night, we were determined, unless some unforeseen mishap occurred, to sleep in the district of Tafilet. Our Berber from Dads, whose heart and soul were centred in my success, which I owe not a little to his good management and fidelity, sang loudly as we pushed on through the palm-groves that lie to the east and south of Ul Turug. Pleasant enough the walking was in the cool of the morning with the shady forest of trees around us, but experience had taught us that these oases are never of any very great extent, and surely enough we had soon left cultivation behind and set out upon a twelve-mile trudge over barren desert. It was just at the commencement of this arid plain of Maghrah that we forded the Wad Todghrá, and we could see the spot where it issued by a gorge from the mountains only a mile or two away on the west. Our road lay almost due south now, the corner of Jibel Saghru having been turned; for the track to Tafilet skirts its northern and eastern slopes, where oases exist, in preference to crossing the barren range where water is scarce and food unprocurable,—for there are no settlements in the northern part of Saghru, the valleys only being resorted to after the occasional rains by the shepherds of the Aït Atta tribe. Otherwise the mountains are free to the muflon—the Barbary wild sheep—which wander in large flocks over the steeps, safe from molestation alike of sportsmen and wild beasts—for, with the exception of a very occasional leopard, there are none of the latter large enough to attack them. The reason that the lion is not found here is no doubt the fact that scarcely any covert exists. However, were the region one that could be reached by sportsmen, unlimited bags of muflon, antelope, and gazelle could be obtained, as the natives seldom if ever hunt. Unfortunately, long before a European could obtain a shot of his quarry, he would probably have fallen to the rifle of some native sharpshooter; for so intense is their hatred of Europeans, that a journey without disguise, or perhaps the company of some great Shereef, would be absolutely impossible. I believe, however, that there are possibilities of much exploration being done amongst the Berbers if one could only get to know them personally; but of doing this they would scarcely give one time or opportunity, for they would probably make an end of one before learning to appreciate the fact that one’s intentions in entering their country were harmless. So many traditions still remain of the Rumin and the treasure they have left buried in these parts, that one’s actions would always be looked upon with suspicion, which it would need much skilful diplomacy to allay.

But to return to my journey. The plain of Maghrah is bounded on the west by the steep black slopes of Jibel Saghru, while to the east it extends across the Wad Gheris to the low line of cliffs and hills that separate the valley of this river from that of the Wad Ziz farther to the east. The plain is quite level except for one low barren hill about five miles south of Ul Turug. In spite of the absolute barrenness of the surrounding country, one was struck with admiration at one feature that presented itself as we proceeded—namely, the great subterranean aqueducts that carry water from the Wad Todghrá to Tiluin, the next oasis to the south, a distance of some eleven miles.

This vast labour deserves some minute description, in order that the extent of the work may be realised. The aqueducts are formed by the sinking of pits at intervals of about 25 yards apart, each some 30 feet deep and 10 feet in diameter. Then from pit to pit a tunnel is excavated, through which the water flows. These tunnels appear to be sufficiently high in most parts to allow of a man walking upright to pass through them. Had there been but one row of these pits and connecting tunnels it would have been a work of vast labour, but I counted no less than eleven, all running parallel with one another, and no great distance apart. A very simple calculation gives the result, that to bring water from the Wad Todghrá to Tiluin no less than 9000 of these shafts have been sunk and the intervening channels excavated—and this with the most primitive of picks and spades. Their existence will remind the reader of the value of water in the desert.

Leaving the plain of Maghrah one enters the oasis of Tiluin, a branch of the tribe of Aït Merghad. Twice previously on the way hither we had seen other settlements and oases belonging to these people, once near the end of the gorge of Imin Erkilim, near Todghrá, and again to the north-east of Ferkla, not many miles from Gheris. Here, just on the northern extremity of the oasis, are the ruins of a large kasba, or possibly ksar, the bare high tabia walls of which wear to-day a melancholy appearance. Opposite, on the top of a rocky hill, once apparently stood a large village; now nothing but crumbling heaps of stones and tabia mark its site. A few hundred yards only beyond this spot, and amongst the palm-trees, stood some saints’ tombs, the largest whitewashed and in good repair. Nothing could have been prettier than the picture they formed—the white domes against the rich green of the trees. At a stream of running water, on the very banks of which the tombs were situated, were a party of soldiers bivouacking. They had lit a small fire and were cooking tea, the sunlight falling in bright spots on their polished trays and brass kettle, the crimson and scarlet saddles of their tethered horses, and their bright clothing. The bit of colour was charming, for all through the desert one longs for something brilliant. It is quite a mistake to imagine that colour is to be found in such countries—in fact, the whole of Morocco is almost devoid of it. In the desert especially the absence of anything bright becomes almost oppressive in time. The sky takes a heated white appearance, only a shade or two different in colour from the white glowing sand. Any figures, or life of any sort that may appear, but alters the tones of the landscape; for so covered is everything with the white dust, and so fierce is the glare of the sun, that at a distance the shadows only appear, and they as hard black patches. The natives, with the exception of the indigo-blue cotton of the women, wear no coloured garments, and even the women’s costume appears black against so light a background. It may be imagined, then, how to our weary eyes the little group of soldiers formed a pleasing picture; but, tempting as it was, we did not dare accept their cordial invitation to join them in their meal, lest my disguise should be discovered; for it is a very different matter to deceive the Berber, who has never seen a European, and generally imagines him to be some kind of a wild beast in appearance, to attempting to do so in the case of Arabs of Morocco proper, who know well the Christian type, and would discover at once the presence of a foreign accent in one’s speech. So with many regrets to be obliged to refuse the proffered drink of tea and hard-boiled eggs and bread, we pushed on, driving our little donkeys before us with sharp cries. Through the palm-groves we passed, until issuing again, we crossed the narrow strip of desert that separates the oasis of Tiluin from that of Fezna, and entered the palm-groves of the latter.

Fezna showed far more signs of prosperity than Tiluin, for whereas in the latter we passed only one ksar that was in good repair, the former boasts many, while, too, the cultivation of the palm is much more carefully attended to. Water flowed in tiny canals on every side, while the soil was green with fsa, on which the natives are entirely dependent for fodder for their few horses and cattle, the soil in the oasis being entirely cultivated, and without its limits all is sand, and sand capable not even in the rainiest times of bearing grass. The inhabitants of Fezna belong to the tribe of Aït Yafalman, members of which we had first come across in Ferkla.

Again only a narrow strip of desert divides Fezna from Jerf—“the cliff”—which owes its name to a low line of hills ending abruptly in a precipice, that extends from Jibel Saghru into the valley of the Wad Gheris. This point forms an excellent landmark from almost all directions, and was visible from the hill above Dar el Baida, where the Sultan’s camp was pitched, to the east side of the oasis of Tafilet, in the district of Tanijiud. Jerf is a large and flourishing oasis, and the two ksor near which we passed were not only of considerable size but also strongly fortified. Very different were these ksor of the valley of the Gheris to those we had been accustomed to at Askura and Dads, for here there were none of the ornamental towers, but only the level walls of tabia, protected at intervals with flanking towers. In fact, the style of architecture resembled much more the walls of a Moorish city than the picturesque Berber residences of the country directly south of the Atlas Mountains.

We had now approached, and been travelling parallel to, the course of the Wad Gheris; but until after we had left Jerf some little distance behind we did not actually catch a glimpse of the river. From here on, however, to our night’s resting-place, the Wad Gheris was continually coming into sight, whenever almost an open space presented itself in the long string of oases that line its western bank.

The first of these cultivated districts is Bauia, but the soil is poor, and though attempts at fields appear now and again, the sand has in places almost obliterated them. After Bauia one passes near the Kasba el Hati, where quantities of grain were being stored against the Sultan’s arrival. Very little of this grain was the produce of the soil, for the crops of barley and wheat are very poor in this part, and far the larger quantity had been brought on camel-caravans from Morocco.

Between Bauia and Kasba el Hati we passed the only unwalled and unfortified village we had as yet seen—the only one I saw, in fact, during the whole of my travels south of the Atlas Mountains. I was told that it was only used in spring, and then only for herding cattle in, for the soil round yields, if rain happens to have fallen, some scant grazing for cows and goats.

A mile or two beyond Kasba el Hati one passes Ulad Hanabu, which, like all this string of oases, is inhabited by Arabs of Tafilet, though the name Hanabu is without doubt a Berber one, and probably the same as Hannibal.

Here at last we began to see signs of fields and cultivated land, and very attractive they were in our eyes, so weary were we with the everlasting desert. The country was green with turnips, maize, and lucerne, with intervals of long narrow strips of sand-dunes, running east and west, carried, no doubt, to their present position by the dominating east wind of summer, that, blowing across the whole area of the Sahara, comes up like the blast of a furnace, and laden with fine particles of sand. So far the desert we had been crossing had been principally composed of gravel and stones, but here we commenced to catch glimpses of the great expanse of sand-hills that lies to the east and south of Tafilet.

We were now following the immediate bank of the Wad Gheris, and a few words as to this river must be written here.

Rising in the main chain of the Atlas Mountains, it waters on its downward courses the following districts, commencing at the north: (i.) Mtrus; (ii.) Aït Merghad, the main settlement of that large Berber tribe; (iii.) Semgat; (iv.) Taderught; and (v.) Gheris, whence it flows almost directly south, watering the string of small oases we had passed through between Jerf and the cultivated land on

the north-west of Tafilet, known as Beled el Unja. Thence it flows through the two districts of Tafilet proper, Sifa and Wad el Melha, and uniting with the main stream of the oasis, the Wad Ziz, eventually is absorbed by the sand at the great marsh of Dayet ed Daura. The water of the Gheris is brackish, but though very unpalatable, our donkeys drank it, as do also the cattle of the neighbouring district.

The river at this part flows some considerable distance below the level of the surrounding country, in a bed varying from 300 to 350 yards in breadth, while the actual ford where we crossed it the same evening at El Meharza was about 60 yards across. High banks of clay, the soil deposited by the river, line its bed on each side, the palm-trees above growing close up to the edge of these cliffs.

Descending to the course of the river, we waded across, and climbing the steep bank on the east side, found ourselves at the great ksar of El Meharza, the capital of the district of Es-Sifa, soon after sundown on November 16.

Tafilet was reached at last, and only a few hours’ journey lay between me and the camp of the Sultan of Morocco, on the east side of the oasis. The illness I had felt coming on for the last few days was now well upon me, and not only did I find it impossible to eat, but even to swallow liquid was a process of pain, so large had the swelling in my throat become. However, this of all the nights of our journey was the one on which I could afford least to give way; for not only was my desire to reach Tafilet accomplished, but there were still weightier reasons why I should keep all my wits about me. We had left the Berber country now and had entered amongst Arabs, and though most of them little knew the looks of a European, for nearly thirty years had elapsed since the last traveller had visited Tafilet, yet they would be sure to recognise my foreign accent, and though it might not necessarily lead to my identity, it would at least cause an unpleasant amount of questioning as to whence I came. We had therefore invented a pretty little story about my coming from Syria to pray at the tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef, who lies buried at Tafilet; but, happily for the sake of our consciences, we were not obliged to make use of it, though I rather regretted not being able to address the little crowd with the speech, every word of which I had prepared, and which not only showed my great religious zeal, but was poetically expressed, and I am sure it would have pleased my hearers equally well. But, as I said, we were spared this, for no question was put to me directly, and our men did all the talking that was necessary in order to obtain admittance into the ksar—for so constantly are the Berbers and Arabs at war, that no stranger is allowed to enter unless he can give a satisfactory account of himself to the gatekeepers, and this custom is general throughout the oasis. However, it was dusk when we entered, for the sun was already set, and a few words explaining that we had come from the north—a vague term generally used of all Morocco north of Fez—and were on our way to the Sultan’s camp, sufficed to gain our admittance.

Nor was my presence the only difficulty that might have caused us to come to grief, for the company of our Berber from Dads might by no means have aided us, and he was really nervous of entering into an Arab stronghold, lest some inhabitant of whom a relative had been killed by a Berber—a by no means uncommon occurrence—might think right to revenge himself upon an innocent passer-by merely because he happened to be of the same race. Guiltless as our Dadsi was on this occasion, I had gathered from his remarks on the road that he had by no means neglected opportunities when they presented themselves of putting Arabs out of the way.

However, all our fears were needless, and with but the shortest of delay we found ourselves within the great double gateway that protects the ksar—for so constant is warfare in the district, that the natives have thought it necessary, or at least expedient, to have two gates, one within the other, and separated from one another by an open piece of ground, surrounded with high walls, so that should their enemies force the outer gate, there would be every chance of annihilating them from the ramparts as they assailed the inner one.

Proceeding by a wide street with high houses on either hand, we at length found a large fondak, or caravanserai, where we took up our quarters under an arcade that ran along two of its sides; and to commemorate our safe arrival in Tafilet, we bought some tea and sugar and a candle, hired a kettle, and enjoyed ourselves as far as was possible in the cold.

Travel had left its mark on all of us. I felt ill and weak, and my throat gave me much pain. Poor Mohammed had a most unbecoming cold in his head, and no pocket-handkerchiefs. The negro—upon whom many curses—worried us by his constant demands for more food, and enraged us by insisting on riding our little donkey the whole way, while Mohammed and I walked. The old Dadsi Shereef’s nephew, too, was thin and tired, and one and all were begrimed with desert sand and with our clothes torn by desert thorns, while our bare legs and feet were fretted over with scratches. Yet we thought of none of these things that night; we merely huddled together in the cold and laughed and chatted, and congratulated each other that now, at long last, after some seventeen days’ weary march, and often from thirty to forty miles a-day, our goal was reached and success attained.

I little thought then that the greatest hardships of my journey were yet to be borne, for I imagined that the Sultan and his Viziers, though doubtless not pleased at my coming, would extend to me some small form of hospitality, and at least not refuse to me the only request I had to make to them,—a few yards of canvas, the smallest of the soldiers’ tents, as a place where I and my few faithful men could rest in. But I was wrong.

Near us, spending the night in the fondak, were a few Haratin of Wad Draa, short in stature, of deep copper colour, and with faces showing much of their negro origin. Cheery fellows they were, and we invited the three or four of them to our dinner-party; and though they spoke but little Arabic, their laughter added to our amusement. They, like myself, were travellers, wandering apparently for no particular object, though the principal cause of travel amongst these Draa natives is, that the cultivated banks of the river produce only sufficient to support a certain number of lives, and thus the excess population, for it is a largely increasing one, seeks its livelihood elsewhere. This no doubt accounts for the large number of Haratin, &c., found throughout the entire country of Morocco.

We were up before dawn, and, loading our donkeys by the light of the remains of the little candle we had bought overnight, set out on the last stage of our journey. Entering the thick palm-groves, we presently joined a larger track than usual, and, taking a south-easterly course through the district of Es Sifa, forded the Wad Ziz, the principal river of Tafilet, some four miles from El Meharza. The water of the Ziz, unlike that of the Wad Gheris, is fresh, and it is on it, therefore, that the natives are principally dependent for their supply for irrigating purposes. The actual course of the river, and the flow of water, was by no means equal to that of the Gheris at this period; but this may have been owing a good deal to the fact that a large quantity is drained off from above, for so deep does the river lie below its banks, that water for cultivation of the land immediately adjoining any part of its course has to be brought from many miles higher up.

The district of Es Sifa, through which we had been passing between the Wads Gheris and Ziz, except in the immediate vicinity of El Meharza, does not show any great fertility, though palm-groves exist in comparatively large quantities. The soil is sandy and the gardens ill-cared for and almost untended, most of the tabia walls that we saw being more or less in a ruined condition. From where we forded the Ziz, entering just to the north of the ruins of Sijilmassa—or, as it is more generally called now, Medinet el Aamra—far more attention is given to the cultivation of the palm and other trees; while the carefully walled gardens of Wad Ifli, for so this district is called, show signs of much care and attention on the part of their owners. Canals of water run in every direction, the largest and deepest we had as yet seen, especially the one which flows to the north of Sijilmassa, and which no doubt supplied that once great city. Even to-day the channel is in good order, with carefully banked walls of bricks, and crossed in many places by arched bridges. Of Sijilmassa I shall have more to say anon. Then on through the thickening palm-groves, by bewildering tracks that turn first in one direction and then in another, over innumerable fast-flowing streams of water; past the great ksar of Rissani, the seat of whatever government can be said to exist here, with its strongly fortified walls; then in sight of the market of Mulai Ali Shereef, with its beehive-like domed stalls in which the natives sell their goods; then again in sight of Abu Aam, the trading centre and seat of learning of the oasis, where the merchants of Fez reside, until at last the ending of the palm-trees brought us into open desert again.

Issuing almost suddenly upon the great waste of sand, a strange but welcome sight met our eyes. Stretching away for a couple of miles along the edge of the desert, white against white hills, the whole dancing and shimmering in the heated air, lay the great camp of Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan of Morocco. It was a welcome sight indeed, for whatever reception I might meet with from the Sultan and his officials, I knew this at least, that my life was safe.

We stood still in silence and gazed upon the imposing scene before us. Amongst the white tents, many decorated in designs in blue, passed the soldiery, mounted and on foot, and the crowds of camp-followers and natives who accompanied his Majesty upon his last fatal expedition into the desert. Horses galloped here and there, many of the riders engaged in the picturesque sport of lab el barud, or powder-play. The smoke of hundreds of camp-fires curled almost imperceptibly into the air, and above all was heard the dull hum of human life.

We had not breakfasted, and already we had been marching some three or four hours, so we sat down in the shade of a few palm-trees and cooked the last drops of our little packet of green tea, and rested for a while. Then a little later I sent my Riffi servant into the camp to announce my arrival to the Sultan’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sid Mfdhul Gharnit.

Mohammed the Riffi was a long time before he gained an interview with Sid Gharnit, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and when he did so it brought no promise of a pleasant reception for myself. In fact, my unlooked-for arrival caused that elderly gentleman no little concern, for though I was well known to him personally, and bore a firman from the Sultan to travel in his dominions, he seemed much upset. There was, however, one item of news that my man brought me on his return that cheered me much. Kaid Maclean, the English officer attached to the Sultan’s suite, was in the camp. Had he not been there, it is difficult to say into what straits I might have fallen, but, fortunately for me, he was; and with everything else against me, his pleading, as will be seen, eventually much bettered my condition.

A few words must be said here to explain the presence in this remote corner of the Sahara of the two European officers who were accompanying the Sultan; and I am sure that Kaid Maclean will forgive my meddling in his affairs and writing a few words about him.

Some seventeen years ago Mulai el Hassen asked the then British Minister, the late Sir John Drummond Hay, to find him a young English officer to drill his troops. Maclean, then a lieutenant in a line regiment, had previous to this applied to Sir John for some such post, and was speedily appointed. Entering upon his work with much zest and spirit, he soon discovered what good stuff was in the Moors as soldiers, and they in turn began to appreciate cleanliness and smartness, so that in a year or so the men placed at the Kaid’s disposal reached a stage of competence in drill, while he gained their respect and admiration. But jealousy at Court put an end to the disciplined army, and with little exception drill was discontinued. Meanwhile, however, Maclean had become a trusty servant of the Sultan, useful to him in a thousand ways; while his British moral standard, so different to that of the Moors, had forced his Majesty to perceive his probity in all matters, and he bestowed confidence and affection upon the British officer. From that time Kaid Maclean has continued in the Sultan’s service, and is perhaps as well known as, and certainly more popular than, any official at Court. His position throughout has been a difficult one; but so carefully has he avoided entering into any duties beyond his own, so skilfully and openly has he shown no desire to encroach upon the prerogatives of others, and so steadfast throughout has been his wish to do nothing that did not further the interests of the Sultan and the Government he has allied himself to, that he has been able to keep himself free from the jealous quarrels that are of everyday occurrence at the Moorish Court.

On the Sultan’s leaving Fez in April of the year in which I made my journey, 1893, he took with him as far as Sufru, a small town some few hours’ journey south of the capital, all his European staff—that is to say, the military missions of France and Spain, some three officers of each, attached to his Court. But from Sufru, for reasons which are not quite apparent, he ordered the Europeans to return to Fez, with the exception of the French officer, Dr Linares, who was commanded to accompany him throughout his journey. Kaid Maclean returned with the rest; but shortly before my leaving Saffi, he, without my knowledge, had proceeded to Tafilet to join the Sultan’s camp, as usual accompanied by his guard of troops. Yet in spite of the fact that he was in his Majesty’s service, wore the Sultan’s uniform, and was accompanied by troops and bore a special firman from his master, he was several times roughly treated, and was more than once in danger of his life upon the road. He had arrived some ten or twelve days previous to myself at Tafilet, and I look back to the fact that he was there to urge my cause with the Sultan and the Viziers with no little feeling of thankfulness and pleasure. To Dr Linares, too, I owe a word of thanks. Had not he been present to perform an operation on my throat, in all probability this book would never have been written, nor I have returned to tell the tale of my journey. Fortune, which has never deserted me in any of my long journeys, stood by me then, to ease my suffering and, I think I may almost say, save my life. But I have progressed too far.

At length Mohammed returned with the welcome news of Kaid Maclean’s presence, and a couple of soldiers to bring me into the camp, where some shelter would be afforded to me until the Sultan’s opinions and wishes as to myself should be known. Meanwhile I was told to “lie low,” and that no communication must pass between myself and either of the European officers, or even the native officials. In a few hours’ time, when Mulai el Hassen should leave the privacy of his tents for his office, my fate would be known.

So I followed my guides into the great camp.

It was a sight well worth seeing—worth almost the long journey to Tafilet; for, though not the first time I had intruded my presence in the camp of the Sultan of Morocco, I had never previously witnessed a following of so large a number of troops and others, or so vast a quantity of tents.

Threading our way through the camp, we at length arrived at a spot near which I recognised the European encampment of Kaid Maclean. There, with a few words of welcome from my guides, I was shown into a small and much-dilapidated bell-tent, of the fashion in use in the Moorish army for the soldiers, of whom it was already half full, and a place was made for me by its occupants—a rough set of men, it is true, but none the less ready to make me as comfortable as the circumstances would allow. In that little tent I spent five days, of which I shall have more to say, and I learned that the Moorish soldier, be he never so ill paid and ill clothed, be he dirty and rough in his language, can when he likes show a solicitude and kindness far greater than one would ever expect from such; and my five days of illness and watchful care from the handful of men who shared my little quarters—or rather, I shared theirs—was an experience gained in the strange character of the Arab people. Scanty as were their rations, the best of everything was specially cooked for me, notwithstanding the fact that I could not even swallow water for the greater part of the time; and these great rough fellows, brought up and trained to every crime and brutality, became like nurses in a sick-room. With voices lowered lest they should wake me when they thought me asleep, with no noise in setting their tiny tea-tray or stirring the little fire of charcoal, they spent their time in trying to amuse me and stir up my wretched spirits. I met two of them this last summer in Fez, whither I had proceeded to meet the young Sultan on his way thither, a month after his accession, and we spent a riotous night of revelry, laughing over the hardships we had shared in the camp of the late Sultan at Tafilet, and amusing ourselves in a way than which we ought to have known better; for so pleased was I to be able to repay in a small degree their kindness to me, that we must have kept the neighbourhood of my residence awake all night with music and singing.

Soon after my arrival I received a message from Kaid Maclean saying he could not see me until the Sultan’s wishes were known; but that if I wanted anything I could send to him surreptitiously, for he had received strict orders to have nothing to do with me at present. Meanwhile I made a written request to Sid Gharnit that a small tent might be found for me and my men to lodge in, and that was all I asked. Toward evening I received a reply. The Sultan had been informed of my coming, and was very indignant, absolutely refusing to give me a tent or anything else, and I was to remain where I was until further orders.

There was nothing to be done, so each hour growing sicker and sicker, I lay down in the dirty little tent, unable to eat or sleep. Hearing that my health was bad, the French doctor was sent to me, and prescribed a gargle, which, though it temporarily relieved the pain, did not prevent the swelling increasing. Then four days of great suffering, often struggling for breath, unable to lie down for fear of choking, or to swallow even a drop of water to quench my thirst. What clothing I had was insufficient, and the cold at night was as intense as the heat of the sun, beating through the thin and tattered canvas of the tent, was by day. Kaid Maclean had received orders not to see me, and he knew better than to disobey them, yet he did everything in his power to ease my suffering, and constantly saw my servant, Mohammed Riffi, as to my condition. At length things grew serious; at times I became unconscious for short periods, and the indignation of my men and the soldiers in the tent knew no bounds, for nothing was done to relieve me.

Poor Mohammed at length broke through every law of Moorish etiquette, and with a burst of expostulation—and I doubt not a little abuse—forced his way into the Viziers’ tent, and let them know not only what he thought of them, but what would be thought of them at Tangier should I die.

This changed matters. The French doctor was hurriedly sent to me, accompanied by Kaid Maclean, and at sunset on the fifth day the quinsy in my throat and the enlarged uvula and other swellings were lanced.

The relief was instantaneous; but even greater than the relief was the change in the bearing of the Moorish officials toward me. Accompanied by Kaid Maclean, Dr Linares had an interview with the Viziers, and made my condition known, asserting that he would not be responsible for my life if I was not at once moved to other quarters, and that I was in a most precarious state of health.

Terrified at what might be the results to themselves should I die, and my death be laid at their door, they gave permission for me to be removed at once, and a few minutes later, with the doctor supporting me on one side and Kaid Maclean on the other, all of us rejoicing at the turn of events, I was half carried, half led, into the comfortable tent of the Kaid. A wash and a change of clothes, a little wine, and an egg and milk, and I turned over to sleep for the first time for four days and four nights.

It may be thought that I have spoken at too great a length on my own illness; but I have felt, uninteresting as my personal case may be, that it might serve as a warning to any other traveller who, like myself, might think that in reaching the Sultan’s camp the end of his sufferings had come, and that he would find, if not hospitality, at least no hostility. What would have happened had I been in good health I do not know, nor do I like to repeat the rumours which were given me on the best of authority; but there is no doubt that I would have been quickly despatched to the coast, and that in a manner neither pleasing nor flattering. However, enough; I have long ago forgiven those to whom I owe that period of suffering. The Sultan died from the effects of his journey; the then Grand Vizier lies in chains in Tetuan prison, together with his brother the Minister of War, who throughout, owing to Kaid Maclean’s entreaties, had shown every possible desire that my condition might be bettered. Sid Gharnit and I have talked the matter over, and he protested, as I have no doubt was the case, that he was unable to do anything for me against the Sultan’s order. Personally, he remarked with a smile, he would have lent me a tent, if for no other motive, that he thought I should probably have brought him some little present from Europe next time I visited the Court; and with this touch of humour we buried the hatchet and supped together, talking over the great changes that had come to pass since then, and ever and anon referring to the turns of fortune that the Moors look upon as predestination. The great men of that day were dead or in prison, while I had returned to health,—and all in the short space of some six months.

Ay! “How are the mighty fallen!”

I recovered more quickly than I had fallen ill, and in a day or two, under Kaid Maclean’s care, was able to leave my bed and sit in one of his easy-chairs and watch the ever-changing scene that presented itself to me in the heart of the Sultan’s camp.

No one who has not seen the great mahalla of Morocco on the march and pitched can form any idea of the strange mixture of boundless confusion and perfect order that succeed each other in such quick succession. A few words as to how the Sultan travelled and how he lived cannot but prove interesting, and my stay in his camp at Tafilet allowed me to see much of both.