For the rank and file of us the Government roads and the harmless necessary soldier must suffice, until the Gordian knot of Morocco’s future has been untied or cut.  Then perhaps, as a result of French pacific penetration, flying railway trains loaded with tourists, guide-book in hand and camera at the ready, will pierce the secret places of the land, and men will speak of “doing” Morocco, as they “do” other countries in their rush across the world, seeing all the stereotyped sights and appreciating none.  For the present, by Allah’s grace, matters are quite otherwise.

Marrakesh unfolded its beauties to us slowly and one by one as we pushed horses and mules into a canter over the level plains of Hillreeli.  Forests of date-palm took definite shape; certain mosques, those of Sidi ben Yusuf and Bab Dukala, stood out clearly before us without the aid of glasses, but the Library mosque dominated the landscape by reason of the Kutubia tower by its side.  The Atlas Mountains came out of the clouds and revealed the snows that would soon melt and set every southern river aflood, and then the town began to show limits to the east and west where, at first, there was nothing but haze.  One or two caravans passed us, northward bound, their leaders hoping against hope that the Pretender, the “dog-descended,” as a Susi trader called him, would not stand between them and the Sultan’s camp, where the profits of the journey lay.  By this time we could see the old grey wall of Marrakesh more plainly, with towers here and there, ruinous as the wall itself, and storks’ nests on the battlements, their red-legged inhabitants fulfilling the duty of sentries.  To the right, beyond the town, the great rock of Djebel Geelez suggested infinite possibilities in days to come, when some conqueror armed with modern weapons and a pacific mission should wish to bombard the walls in the sacred cause of civilisation.  Then the view was lost in the date-palm forest, through which tiny tributaries of the Tensift run babbling over the red earth, while the kingfisher or dragon-fly, “a ray of living light,” flashes over the shallow water, and young storks take their first lessons in the art of looking after themselves.

When a Moor has amassed wealth he praises God, builds a palace, and plants a garden; or, is suspected, accused—­despotic authority is not particular—­and cast into prison!  In and round Marrakesh many Moors have gained riches and some have held them.  The gardens stretch for miles.  There are the far-spreading Augdal plantations of the Sultans of Morocco, in part public and elsewhere so private that to intrude would be to court death.  The name signifies “the Maze,” and they are said to justify it.  In the outer or public grounds of this vast pleasaunce the fruit is sold by auction to the merchants of the city in late spring, when blossoming time is over, and, after the sale, buyers must watch and guard the trees until harvest brings them their reward.