On the ground, by the side of the human cattle pens, the wealthy patrons of the market seat themselves at their ease, arrange their djellabas and selhams in leisurely fashion, and begin to chat, as though the place were the smoking-room of a club.  Water-carriers—­lean, half-naked men from the Sus—­sprinkle the thirsty ground, that the tramp of slaves and auctioneers may not raise too much dust.  Watching them as they go about their work, with the apathy born of custom and experience, I have a sudden reminder of the Spanish bull-ring, to which the slave market bears some remote resemblance.  The gathering of spectators, the watering of the ground, the sense of excitement, all strengthen the impression.  There are no bulls in the torils, but there are slaves in the pens.  It may be that the bulls have the better time.  Their sufferings in life are certainly brief, and their careless days are very long drawn out.  But I would not give the impression that the spectators here are assembled for amusement, or that my view of some of their proceedings would be comprehensible to them.  However I may feel, the other occupants of this place are here in the ordinary course of business, and are certainly animated by no such fierce passions as thrill through the air of a plaza de toros.  I am in the East but of the West, and “never the twain shall meet.”

[Illustration:  A WATER-SELLER, MARRAKESH]

Within their sheds the slaves are huddled together.  They will not face the light until the market opens.  I catch a glimpse of bright colouring now and again, as some woman or child moves in the dim recesses of the retreats, but there is no suggestion of the number or quality of the penned.

Two storks sail leisurely from their nest on the saint’s tomb, and a little company of white ospreys passes over the burning market-place with such a wild, free flight, that the contrast between the birds and the human beings forces itself upon me.  Now, however, there is no time for such thoughts; the crowd at the entrance parts to the right and left, to admit twelve grave men wearing white turbans and spotless djellabas.  They are the dilals, in whose hands is the conduct of the sale.

Slowly and impressively these men advance in a line almost to the centre of the slave market, within two or three yards of the arcade, where the wealthy buyers sit expectant.  Then the head auctioneer lifts up his voice, and prays, with downcast eyes and outspread hands.  He recites the glory of Allah, the One, who made the heaven above and the earth beneath, the sea and all that is therein; his brethren and the buyers say Amen.  He thanks Allah for his mercy to men in sending Mohammed the Prophet, who gave the world the True Belief, and he curses Shaitan, who wages war against Allah and his children.  Then he calls upon Sidi bel Abbas, patron saint of Marrakesh, friend of buyers and sellers, who praised Allah so assiduously in days remote, and asks the saint to bless the market