[Illustration:  ON THE ROAD TO MARRAKESH]

We rode past the low-walled gardens, where pomegranate and apricot trees were flowering, and strange birds I did not know sang in the deep shade.  Doves flitted from branch to branch, bee-eaters darted about among mulberry and almond trees.  There was an overpowering fragrance from the orange groves, where blossom and unplucked fruit showed side by side; the jessamine bushes were scarcely less fragrant.  Spreading fig-trees called every passer to enjoy their shade, and the little rivulets, born of the Tensift’s winter floods to sparkle through the spring and die in June, were fringed with willows.  It was delightful to draw rein and listen to the plashing of water and the cooing of doves, while trying in vain to recognise the most exquisite among many sweet scents.

Under one of the fig-trees in a garden three Moors sat at tea.  A carpet was spread, and I caught a glimpse of the copper kettle, the squat charcoal brazier tended by a slave, the quaint little coffer filled no doubt with fine green tea, the porcelain dish of cakes.  It was a quite pleasing picture, at which, had courtesy permitted, I would have enjoyed more than a brief glance.

The claim of the Moors upon our sympathy and admiration is made greater by reason of their love for gardens.  As a matter of fact, their devotion may be due in part to the profit yielded by the fruit, but one could afford to forget that fact for the time being, when Nature seemed to be giving praise to the Master of all seasons for the goodly gifts of the spring.

We crossed the Tensift by the bridge, one of the very few to be found in Southern Morocco.  It has nearly thirty arches, all dilapidated as the city walls themselves, yet possessing their curious gift of endurance.  Even the natives realise that their bridge is crumbling into uselessness, after nearly eight centuries of service, but they do no more than shrug their shoulders, as though to cast off the burden of responsibility and give it to destiny.  On the outskirts of the town, where gardens end and open market-squares lead to the gates, a small group of children gathered to watch the strangers with an interest in which fear played its part.  We waited now to see the baggage animals before us, and then M’Barak led the way past the mosque at the side of the Bab el Khamees and through the brass-covered doors that were brought by the Moors from Spain.  Within the Khamees gate, narrow streets with windowless walls frowning on either side shut out all view, save that which lay immediately before us.

[Illustration:  A MINSTREL]