Morocco | Page 7

waste food, and they have installed themselves as our
protectors, whether out of a feeling of gratitude or in hope of favours to
come I cannot tell, but probably from a mixture of wise motives. They
are alert, savage beasts, of a hopelessly mixed breed, but no wild boar
will come rooting near the camp now, nor will any thief, however
light-footed, yield to the temptation our tents afford.
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE KASBAH, TANGIER]
We have but one visitor after the last curtain has been drawn, a strange
bird with a harsh yet melancholy note, that reminds me of the night-jar

of the fen lands in our own country. The hills make a semicircle round
the camp, and the visitor seems to arrive at the corner nearest Spartel
about one o'clock in the morning. It cries persistently awhile, and then
flies to the middle of the semicircle, just at the back of the tents, where
the note is very weird and distinct. Finally it goes to the other horn of
the crescent and resumes the call--this time, happily, a much more
subdued affair. What is it? Why does it come to complain to the silence
night after night? One of the men says it is a djin, and wants to go back
to Tangier, but Salam, whose loyalty outweighs his fears, declares that
even though it be indeed a devil and eager to devour us, it cannot come
within the charmed range of my revolver. Hence its regret, expressed so
unpleasantly. I have had to confess to Salam that I have no proof that
he is wrong.
Now and again in the afternoon the tribesmen call to one another from
the hill tops. They possess an extraordinary power of carrying their
voices over a space that no European could span. I wonder whether the
real secret of the powers ascribed to the half-civilised tribes of Africa
has its origin in this gift. Certain it is that news passes from village to
village across the hills, and that no courier can keep pace with it. In this
way rumours of great events travel from one end of the Dark Continent
to the other, and if the tales told me of the passage of news from South
to North Africa during the recent war were not so extravagant as they
seem at first hearing, I would set them down here, well assured that
they would startle if they could not convince. In the south of Morocco,
during the latter days of my journey, men spoke with quiet conviction
of the doings of Sultan and Pretender in the North, just as though
Morocco possessed a train or telegraph service, or a native newspaper.
It does not seem unreasonable that, while the deserts and great rolling
plains have extended men's vision to a point quite outside the
comprehension of Europe, other senses may be at least equally
stimulated by a life we Europeans shall: never know intimately.
Perhaps the fear of believing too readily makes us unduly sceptical, and
inclined to forget that our philosophy cannot compass one of the many
mysteries that lie at our door.
If any proof were required that Morocco in all its internal disputes is

strictly tribal, our safe residence here would supply one. On the other
side of Tangier, over in the direction of Tetuan, the tribes are out and
the roads are impassable. Europeans are forbidden to ride by way of
Angera to Tetuan. Even a Minister, the representative of a great
European Power, was warned by old Hadj Mohammed Torres, the
resident Secretary for Foreign Affairs, that the Moorish Administration
would not hold itself responsible for his safety if he persisted in his
intention to go hunting among the hills. And here we remain
unmolested day after day, while the headmen of the Mediunah tribe
discuss with perfect tranquillity the future of the Pretender's rebellion,
or allude cheerfully to the time when, the Jehad (Holy War) being
proclaimed, the Moslems will be permitted to cut the throats of all the
Unbelievers who trouble the Moghreb. In the fatalism of our
neighbours lies our safety. If Allah so wills, never a Nazarene will
escape the more painful road to eternal fire; if it is written otherwise,
Nazarene torment will be posthumous. They do not know, nor, in times
when the land is preparing for early harvest, do they greatly care, what
or when the end may be. Your wise Moor waits to gather in his corn
and see it safely hoarded in the clay-lined and covered pits called
mat'moras. That work over, he is ready and willing, nay, he is even
anxious, to fight, and if no cause of quarrel is to be found he will make
one.
[Illustration: HEAD OF A BOY FROM MEDIUNA]
Every year