The chief muleteer was a thin and wiry little fellow, a total stranger to the soap and water beloved of Unbelievers.  He could not have been more than five feet high, and he was burnt brown.  His dark outer garment of coarse native wool had the curious yellow patch on the back that all Berbers seem to favour, though none can explain its origin or purpose, and he carried his slippers in his hand, probably deeming them less capable of withstanding hard wear than his naked feet.  He had no Arabic, but spoke only “Shilha,” the language of the Berbers, so it took some time to make all arrangements, including the stipulation that a proper meal for all the mules was to be given under the superintendence of M’Barak.  That worthy representative of Shareefian authority was having a regal time, drawing a dollar a day, together with three meals and a ration for his horse, in return for sitting at ease in the courtyard of the Tin House.

Arrangements concluded, it was time to say good-bye to Sidi Boubikir.  I asked delicately to be allowed to pay rent for the use of the house, but the hospitable old man would not hear of it.  “Allah forbid that I should take any money,” he remarked piously.  “Had you told me you were going I would have asked you to dine with me again before you started.”  We sat in the well-remembered room, where green tea and mint were served in a beautiful set of china-and-gold filagree cups, presented to him by the British Government nearly ten years ago.  He spoke at length of the places that should be visited, including the house of his near relative, Mulai el Hadj of Tamsloht, to whom he offered to send me with letters and an escort.  Moreover, he offered an escort to see us out of the city and on the road to the coast, but I judged it better to decline both offers, and, with many high-flown compliments, left him by the entrance to his great house, and groped back through the mud to put the finishing touches to packing.

The young shareef accepted a parting gift with grave dignity, and assured me of his esteem for all time and his willing service when and where I should need it.  I had said good-bye to the “tabibs” and “tabibas,” so nothing remained but to rearrange our goods, that nearly everything should be ready for the mules when they arrived before daybreak.  Knowing that the first day’s ride was a long one, some forty miles over an indifferent road and with second-rate animals, I was anxious to leave the city as soon as the gates were opened.

[Illustration:  THE JAMA’A EFFINA]

Right above my head the mueddin in the minaret overlooking the Tin House called the sleeping city to its earliest prayer.[47] I rose and waked the others, and we dressed by a candle-light that soon became superfluous.  When the mueddin began the chant that sounded so impressive and so mournful as it was echoed from every minaret in the city, the first approach of light would have been visible in the east, and in these latitudes day