ne corner. The _hummum_, or Turkish bath, is partly
enjoined by the Kor[=a]n and partly taken for its own enjoyment; it is a
feature of every Moorish house of any pretension, and largely used by men
and women.

The evening was a dark one, and we picked our way back to the fonda by
the light of lanterns: it is impossible to go out at night in Tetuan
without carrying one; the streets are wholly unlit, and the refuse-heaps
and central gutters unpleasant traps.

Next morning R. and I strolled out of the city in the direction of Ceuta
by way of the _Bab-el-M`kabar_ (the Gate of the Tombs). Just beyond this
gateway congregates in the road _el doollah_ (the drove)--that is to say,
the mules and donkeys belonging to any one in Tetuan who has no work for
them on that particular day. They are all left by their owners at this
spot in the care of a tall, tattered Moor, whose business in life is to
look after them; and there they lie in the sandy road or lean up against
the hot wall or each other, one of the saddest sights on God's earth,
some of them infant two-year-olds, all of them overworked and starved.
About midday the drover drives his charges off to the nearest grass--such
as it is--and the ragged squad troops along the stony track without
bridles and without spirit to abuse its freedom. They have none of them
packs or saddles, unless their sore backs are too deeply aggravated to
allow of exposure to the flies and dust; and in due time, one by one, the
old or the dying drop tacitly out of the ranks; a couple of days--the
scavenging dogs' work is done--and only a tangled knot of bones is kicked
away from the roadside by the feet of the living generation, which have
picked up the scantiest feed, and are straying back citywards again in
the late afternoon, to be called for outside the Bab-el-M`kabar each by
its owner.

El doollah had not started; and leaving them all in the road below us, we
passed the little knots of countrywomen who sit by the Bab-el-M`kabar
selling myrtle for laying upon the graves, and wound our way uphill
through the old Mussulman cemetery, with its quaint domed tombs and
toothed, arched doorways, cracked, decayed, and yellow with lichen, half
hidden among the tangle of bushes and wild flowers on the rough slope.

The older of the tombs are probably those of the first Moors who fled
from Spain in the days of that great _trek_ back to Morocco: a much later
and very conspicuous dome belongs to a brave lad