We passed the graveyard of the Protestants and Catholics, a retired place that pleaded eloquently in its peacefulness for the last long rest that awaits all mortal travellers.  Much care had made it less a cemetery than a garden, and it literally glowed and blazed with flowers—­roses, geraniums, verbena, and nasturtiums being most in evidence.  A kindly priest of the order of St. Francis invited us to rest, and enjoy the colour and fragrance of his lovingly-tended oasis.  And while we rested, he talked briefly of his work in the town, and asked me of our journey.  The place reminded me strongly of a garden belonging to another Brotherhood of the Roman Catholic Church, and set at Capernaum on the Sea of Galilee, where, a few years ago, I saw the monks labouring among their flowers, with results no less happy than I found here.

After a brief rest we rode along the beach towards the city gate.  Just outside, the camels had come to a halt and some town traders had gathered round the Bedouins to inquire the price of the goods brought from the interior, in anticipation of the morrow’s market.  Under the frowning archway of the water-port, where True Believers of the official class sit in receipt of custom, I felt the town’s cobbled road under foot, and the breath of the trade-winds blowing in from the Atlantic.  Then I knew that Sunset Land was behind me, my journey at an end.

FOOTNOTES: 

[53] Mogador, called by the Moors “Suera,” i.e. “The Picture.”

THE END

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