ailing taste of pitch imparted by the
leather contrivances. Several of these latter are to be seen before
the tents hanging on tripods. One of the Moors informs us that for the
first day on board they have to provide their own water, after which
it is found for them, but everything else they take with them. An
ebony-hued son of Ham, seated by a neighbouring tent, replies to
our query as to what he is providing, "I take nothing," pointing
heavenward to indicate his reliance on Divine providence.

And so they travel. The group before us has come from the Sahara, a
month's long journey overland, on foot! Yet their travels have only
commenced. Can they have realized what it all means?

[Illustration: _Cavilla, Photo., Tangier._

WAITING FOR THE STEAMER.]

XXIV

RETURNING HOME

"He lengthened absence, and returned unwelcomed."

_Moorish Proverb._

Evening is about to fall--for fall it does in these south latitudes,
with hardly any twilight--and the setting sun has lit the sky with
a refulgent glow that must be gazed at to be understood--the arc of
heaven overspread with glorious colour, in its turn reflected by the
heaving sea. One sound alone is heard as I wend my way along the sandy
shore; it is the heavy thud and aftersplash of each gigantic wave,
as it breaks on the beach, and hurls itself on its retreating
predecessor, each climbing one step higher than the last.

There, in the distance, stands a motley group--men, women,
children--straining wearied eyes to recognize the forms which crowd
a cargo lighter slowly nearing land. Away in the direction of their
looks I dimly see the outline of the pilgrim ship, a Cardiff coaler,
which has brought close on a thousand Hajes from Port Said or
Alexandria--men chiefly, but among them wives and children--who have
paid that toilsome pilgrimage to Mekka.

The last rays of the sun alone remain as the boat strikes the shore,
and as the darkness falls apace a score of dusky forms make a wild
rush into the surging waters, while an equal number rise up eager in
the boat to greet their friends. So soon as they are near enough to be
distinguished one from another, each watcher on the beach shouts the
name of the friend he is awaiting, proud to affix, for the first time,
the title Haj--Pilgrim--to his name. As only some twenty or
thirty have yet landed from among so many hundreds, the number of
disappointed ones who have to turn back and bide their time is
proportio