holes, with which it is plentifully bestrewn. The ground appears on either hand a widestretched rugged plain, covered with bushes but without conspicuous landmark. There are very few substantial trees and no hedges, except an occasional row of cactus fringing the path. Such cabins and native huts as may be dotted about pass unnoticed, their low lines harmonising with the landscape, their walls and roofs smeared with red ochre, and fashioned out of the same mud as the plain itself. We may have walked like this, side by side, speaking at rare intervals, for an hour or more, when suddenly it is evident the guides are no longer in front. A moment ago they were in full moonlight. Now they have disappeared, vanished into air. It is like one of those bizarre lapses which occur in fairy tales, and one is inclined to rub one's eyes. The little bent old man was just ahead with his two companions, waving his stick about and gesticulating continually, but now he is no longer to be seen. Moonlight spreads over a boundless expanse of empty country, and the way lies straight and level as far as gaze can penetrate. We carry on, curious but unconvinced, half expecting the vanished three will reappear. But there is no clue to the mystery until, abreast of the place where they had seemed to become invisible, a deep and narrow ravine appears running directly from the path. It is too steep and sudden for light to penetrate its depths, and lies like a pool of ink by the wayside. Far in immeasurable recesses one is conscious of some sort of stir, oddly resembling the noise made by scene-shifters on a stage, when the interlude has just ended, and the curtain is about to rise on a new act. There is no alternative course to adopt unless the adventure is to end in nothing; 80 we blunder down the precipitous slope, pitching blindly over rocks and into bushes, clinging desperately to spiky brambles for support. The headlong descent is soon over. At the bottom of the ravine are gathered in pitchblackness a multitude of men and animals. The murmur of voices and subdued clatter of hoofs on loose stones are all around, whispered ejaculations and sharp orders in Arabic creating confusion in one's ears. Mysteriously we are guided to the centre of the throng, and deft fingers out of the dark help us off with hats and European clothing, replacing them with strange garments. Dexterously round our heads they bind the rozzar of the country, and throw jaleebs over our shoulders. They mount us on prancing mules carrying huge saddle bags — mules and saddle bags alike invested with the significance of night and obscurity. Hardly am I balanced on my steed when the cavalcade moves off, picking its way in Indian file along the dry river-bed with many a cautionary "Shuayia! long since vanished behind a Shuayia!" and sharp hissed hill, and the journey continues "Zid!" in formless void. When one's eyes grow familiar with the dark, it becomes possible to distinguish the host of Moors pressing close, each armed with a rifle, moving with circumspection through innumerable ravines that intersect the plain in every direction. Past occasional hamlets, mere formless blots of darkness, where barking dogs alone indicate the presence of life; through dry river-bottoms where stones rattle beneath hoofs, and over interminable sky-lines. Now there is no track at all. We are pressing across the billowy plain, tossed wildly about as our mounts stumble into obstacles. The escort has adopted patrol formation with advance and flank guards, which maintain distance and direction in a way that would astonish Aldershot. Occasionally scouts ahead delay to encircle a suspicious object, and the main body automatically extends without orders, each man prone in the firing position while an investigation is made. Once there is a sharp exchange of shots away on a flank, and mules are hastily pulled into a depression to await events. "" What is it against the sky? Oh, Mohammed! and "Shuayia! Shuayia! posta Spagnola," this last remark, for our special benefit, producing a due sense of anticipation. But nothing follows as the procession advances with prodigious clatter. The moon has Forcing a way over rough country in the dark, on top of straw stuffed bundles which serve for saddles, without grip for the knees or stirrups for balance, so that it is indifferent whether one rides astride or on one side or the other, the effort to maintain equilibrium is alone a sufficient tax on one's faculties. Such a journey leaves little disposition to inquire into passing events. Occasional snatches of wild music noted in the air may have originated with the genii of the place, for all I know. Certainly far-off music and spasmodic bursts of rifle fire nearer to hand go with us through the night. High up on a sure-footed beast, ascending and descending sharp declivities, one is carried onward without other idea of direction than that the plough is circling slowly on the left. Music and the ping of bullets alternate in one's ears. But existence is for the time narrowed to two vital factors, of retaining a seat, and keeping in view a ghostly white object that dances always a little ahead, and represents the turban of a guide. ban of a guide. Once or twice there is doubt about direction, and for a space we are the centre of an invisible whispering throng. But the procession soon moves on again in single file. The chirping of grasshoppers seems immeasurably loud in the calm African night, glow worms lurk among the bushes, and shooting-stars are overhead, when the expedition off-saddles after eight hours, having picked its way for the past half-mile along the tops of wide stone walls that apparently separate patches of cultivation. Mules and men take odd shapes in the flickering matchlight, halted in front of a building whose pitch-black silhouette is only visible where it shuts out the sky. But there is not long to wait before bolts that have been quickly withdrawn in response to knocking disclose a white-robed Moor eager to welcome his guests, holding their hands affectionately between his own while he makes inquiries about the journey. Candles gleam as he leads the way into a low-built guestchamber, apologising for the modesty of the establishment. There in the soft light AshSharif-el-Arbi-el-Wazzani is also waiting, spread upon a carpet, and Seyyed his servant helps to bring in our bundles. With hardly a moment's delay Moorish tea appears, brewed from fresh mint, and heaped almost to the brim of the pot with sugar. It makes the most refreshing drink imaginable as we recline together on carpets, sipping from little tumblers. Cakes follow, and more substantial things, a bowl of eggs cooked in oil, and another of meat. Each dish, when the quality have helped themselves, is handed down to the lower end of the apartment, where men of the bodyguard are packed tight. There are no plates, nor knives and forks, meat being simply pulled apart with the fingers, and eggs lifted to the mouth on fragments of bread. But between each course warm and perfumed water must be carried round, and poured upon the hands of the company into a brass bowl. During the opening stages of the meal conversation flags; but over a fresh pot of tea AshSharif grows communicative, announcing that we three are to make the journey together as far as Snaada, where he will himself present us to Sidi Hamdo, his kinsman and head of the Wazzani in the Riff. Between sips of tea he lets fall glowing hints of the reception in store. He has the air of a gentleman who has seen the world, and is returning to his country seat and the solid comforts of home. His cherubic countenance is wreathed in smiles as he dwells on the amenities of family life, while admitting that there are luxuries to which we may be accustomed that will not be found in Snaada. Yet to personages like ourselves, satiated with soft living, a spell of such country existence may prove an agreeable tonic, its effect rather enhanced by certain limitations. The ways of town and country are compared with tolerant familiarity, but with unconcealed bias in favour of home, where the food is better than any to be had in Tangier ; thereupon plump fingers are extended in a wide sweep indicating boundless degree, both as to quality and quantity. the carpet has to be gathered There is no hint in the gesture up and folded, and roped on of those privations which are to the back of a mule. Vilpresumed in Europe to follow lagers are out in force to eleven years' blockade. witness the departure, and some time must elapse before we all get clear of our admirers, the escort numbering nearly fifty men. Once free, it is a jovial band that advances into the valleys, singing to enliven the march, and hailing the rustic population with shouts from one hill to another. Our host rides with us for nearly two hours, only withdrawing at the boundary of his tribal territory. It is a mark of goodwill to pass the night with one's guests, and perhaps also a safeguard against treachery. So the Kayed remains long in friendly intercourse, never dreaming that anybody could be tired in a country where they march all day and talk most of the night. When finally every subject seems exhausted, and candles flicker in their sockets, our host rolls up his jaleeb for a pillow, and declares his intention to sleep with his dear friends on their carpet, instead of retiring to his private apartment. As the light wanes, soldiers finish cleaning their rifles, and put clips of cartridges in the chargers before placing them on the floor close at hand, ready to be snatched up in emergency. They are handing round a final pipe of kieff over the charcoal brazier as we dispose ourselves for sleep, all four side by side, with Seyyed like a faithful dog at our feet. The morning is far advanced before arrangements for the resumption of the journey are complete. New guides are waiting with fresh mounts, and the Kayed himself superintends the departure. El Arbi must occupy his carpet to the last moment, resplendent in pale grey jaleeb and blue - embroidered waistcoat, taking snuff at intervals, until finally The air is wonderfully fresh, and as the cavalcade proceeds over the hills in morning sunshine, El Arbi declares there is no place like the Jabala, where a man may live free from care and even grow fat, though he only possess his jaleeb and a serviceable gun. There can never have been a more joyous pilgrimage, or detachment of troops on whom responsibility sat more lightly; but when at times the trek lies through a defile or under the shoulder of a mountain, flank guards are detached to go bounding up the precipices on either hand, while the main body halts to let them take their line. Ascending each height an advance party pushes well ahead over the brow, and occasionally signals back some suspicious circumstance. Then comes a lull in the conversation and rapid taking of cover. The click of rifle-bolts in one's ear as chambers are filled is the only indication of life on an empty hill side, and in a few moments party pulls up childishly to even the goats have forgotten our existence. But as it happens to-day, these are all false alarms. Every hour carries us deeper into a country growing continually more rugged, until the time comes to call a halt for lunch, a meal which has to be bolted, for Seyyed announces at the outset that the escort is already waiting to conduct us to the headquarters of Sidi el Arbi of the Beni Hassan. There is no time to waste if we are not to be shot in the dusk by his sentries. So a forced march is made, and there is still daylight to spare when we approach the fastness of the sons of Hassan, perched at the head of a ravine. The chief being away, his people furnish such a night's entertainment as leaves little inclination for an early start, when bowls of buttermilk are brought to refresh us next morning before the departure. Moving out, the party spreads fan-wise over the hill, and it is like the opening of a saga as they go singing their songs and discharging rifles into the air. A grey-bearded man is laughing hilariously for no apparent cause as he breasts the hill, with buttermilk still on his beard. Another offers me figs. While at the head of all a barefooted youth leaps from crag to crag, brandishing a rifle with the trigger at full cock. Once at least every available firearm is discharged in a grand salvo, merely for the pleasure noise gives; and the whole hear echoes rebounding from distant hills. All this time ascents are growing stiffer, and valleys more tortuous. The sun looks joyfully down from heaven. Approaching a mountain torrent, men race to throw themselves at full length on overhanging ledges, and drink the pure water in gulps. Women working in the fields cover themselves hastily on the appearance of the cavalcade, and laugh behind striped haika. Goats go bounding up the hills at our approach. You can almost hear the stamping of Pan among the rocks. On the third day, surmounting a ridge, a new panorama of savage country is exposed, and miles away in the valley a great white road lies extended like a snake, its sinuous coils reappearing again and again, while all the surrounding hills bristle with capiemento. This is the famous track the Spaniards have made, and their waggons pass along it every day. There is only one other road to equal it in the Riff, also built by Spanish hands, though they be the hands of prisoners merely anxious to alleviate their lot. Every detail of a transport column that advances from the direction of Tetuan is visible through El Arbi's glasses: an officer riding fearlessly ahead; motor-drivers lolling in their seats; horsemen pressing close about the lorries. The garrisons of the capiemento keep watch over the road, but beyond and above the hills on |