We met slaves-dealers too from time to time, carrying women and children on mules, while the men slaves walked along at a good pace.  And the dealers by no means wore the villainous aspect that conventional observers look to see, but were plainly men bent upon business, travelling to make money.  They regarded the slaves as merchandise, to be kept in tolerably fair condition for the sake of good sales, and unless Ruskin was right when he said that all who are not actively kind are cruel, there seemed small ground on which to condemn them.  To be sure, they were taking slaves from market to market, and not bringing Soudanese captives from the extreme South, so we saw no trace of the trouble that comes of forced travel in the desert, but even that is equally shared by dealers and slave alike.

The villages of Morocco are no more than collections of conical huts built of mud and wattle and palmetto, or goat and camel skins.  These huts are set in a circle all opening to the centre, where the live-stock and agricultural implements are kept at night.  The furniture of a tent is simple enough.  Handloom and handmill, earthenware jars, clay lamps, a mattress, and perhaps a tea-kettle fulfil all requirements.

A dazzling, white-domed saint’s shrine within four square walls lights the landscape here and there, and gives to some douar such glory as a holy man can yield when he has been dead so long that none can tell the special direction his holiness took.  The zowia serves several useful purposes.  The storks love to build upon it, and perhaps the influence of its rightful owner has something to do with the good character of the interesting young birds that we see plashing about in the marshes, and trying to catch fish or frogs with something of their parents’ skill.  Then, again, the zowia shelters the descendants of the holy man, who prey upon passers in the name of Allah and of the departed.

Beyond one of the villages graced with the shrine of a forgotten saint, I chanced upon a poor Moorish woman washing clothes at the edge of a pool.  She used a native grass-seed in place of soap, and made the linen very white with it.  On a great stone by the water’s edge sat a very old and very black slave, and I tried with Salam’s aid to chat with him.  But he had no more than one sentence.  “I have seen many Sultans,” he cried feebly, and to every question he responded with these same words.  Two tiny village boys stood hand in hand before him and repeated his words, wondering.  It was a curious picture and set in striking colour, for the fields all round us were full of rioting irises, poppies, and convolvuli; the sun that gilded them was blazing down upon the old fellow’s unprotected head.  Gnats were assailing him in legions, singing their flattering song as they sought to draw his blood.[13] Before us on a hill two meadows away stood the douar, its conical huts thatched with black straw and striped palmetto, its zowia with minaret points at each corner of the protecting