[Illustration:  EVENING ON THE PLAINS]

By the headman’s direction our wants are supplied.  The patriarch, with his long white beard and clear far-seeing eyes, receives the respect and obedience of all the village, settles all disputes, and is personally responsible to the kaid of the district for the order and safety of the n’zala.  Three men come from the well, each bearing a big clay amphora of water that must be boiled before we drink it.  One brings an ample measure of barley, costing about four shillings or a little more in English money, another bends under a great load of straw.  Closely-veiled women carry small jars of milk and hand them to their lord, who brings them up to Salam and states the price demanded.  Milk is dear throughout Morocco in the late spring and summer, for, herbage being scanty, cows are small and poor.  Eggs, on the other hand, are cheap; we can buy a dozen for twopence or its equivalent in Spanish or Moorish money, and chickens cost about fivepence apiece.  If Salam, M’Barak and the Maalem were travelling alone they would pay less, but a European is rarely seen, and his visit must be made memorable.

Provisions purchased, the tent up, mules and horses tethered together in full view of the tent, a great peace falls upon our little party.  I am permitted to lie at full length on a horse rug and stare up at the dark, star-spangled sky; Salam has dug a little hole in the ground, made a charcoal fire, and begun to prepare soup and boil the water for coffee.  The Maalem smokes kief in furtive manner, as though orthodox enough to be ashamed of the practice, while M’Barak prepares plates and dishes for the evening meal.  Around, in a semicircle, some ten yards away, the men and boys of the village sit observing us solemnly.  They have little to say, but their surprise and interest are expressed quite adequately by their keen unfailing regard.  The afterglow passes and charcoal fires are lighted at the edge of most of the native huts, in preparation for the evening meal, for the young shepherds have come from the fields and the flocks are safely penned.  In the gathering dusk the native women, passing through the smoke or by the flame of their fire, present a most weird picture, as it might be they were participating in a Witches’ Sabbath.  Darkness envelops all the surrounding country, hiding the road by which we came, sealing up the track we have to follow, striking a note of loneliness that is awesome without being unpleasant.  With what we call civilisation hundreds of miles away, in a country where law and order are to be regarded more as names than facts, one has a great joy in mere living, intensified doubtless by long hours spent in the saddle, by occasional hard work and curtailed rest, and by the daily sight of the rising sun.