We each and all rendered praise and thanks after our separate fashions, and for me, I lit my last cigarette, careless of the future and well pleased.

FOOTNOTES: 

[13] As the gnat settles he cries, “Habibi,” i.e. “O my beloved.”  His, one fears, is but a carnal affection.

[14] I.e. Wives and children, to whom no Moor refers by name.

[15] It is said to be the largest market in the Sultan’s dominions.  As many as two thousand camels have been counted at one of the weekly gatherings here.

[16] The cairns are met frequently in Morocco.  Some mark the place from which the traveller may obtain his first view of a near city; others are raised to show where a murder was committed.  The cairns in the Little Hills are of the former kind.

IN RED MARRAKESH

[Illustration:  DATE PALMS NEAR MARRAKESH]

CHAPTER V

IN RED MARRAKESH

    Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai,
    Whose portals are alternate Night and Day,
    How Sultan after Sultan with his pomp
    Abode his destined hour and went his way.

    The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

There are certain cities that cannot be approached for the first time by any sympathetic traveller without a sense of solemnity and reverence that is not far removed from awe.  Athens, Rome, Constantinople, Damascus, and Jerusalem may be cited as examples; each in its turn has filled me with great wonder and deep joy.  But all of these are to be reached nowadays by the railway, that great modern purge of sensibility.  Even Jerusalem is not exempt.  A single line stretches from Jaffa by the sea to the very gates of the Holy City, playing hide-and-seek among the mountains of Judaea by the way, because the Turk was too poor to tunnel a direct path.

In Morocco, on the other hand, the railway is still unknown.  He who seeks any of the country’s inland cities must take horse or mule, camel or donkey, or, as a last resource, be content with a staff to aid him, and walk.  Whether he fare to Fez, the city of Mulai Idrees, in which, an old writer assures us, “all the beauties of the earth are united”; or to Mequinez, where great Mulai Ismail kept a stream of human blood flowing constantly from his palace that all might know he ruled; or to Red Marrakesh, which Yusuf ibn Tachfin built nine hundred years ago,—­his own exertion must convoy him.  There must be days and nights of scant fare and small comfort, with all those hundred and one happenings of the road that make for pleasant memories.  So far as I have been able to gather in the nine years that have passed since I first visited Morocco, one road is like another road, unless you have the Moghrebbin Arabic at your command and can go off the beaten track in Moorish dress.  Walter Harris, the resourceful traveller and Times correspondent, did this when he sought the oases of Tafilalt, so also, in his fashion, did R.B.  Cunninghame Graham when he tried in vain to reach Tarudant, and set out the record of his failure in one of the most fascinating travel books published since Eothen.[17]