"Surely, this must be paradise," cries Moll, staying to look around her.

And we were of the same thinking, until we came to the town, which, as I
have said, lies in the midst of this forest, and then all our hopes and
expectations were dashed to the ground. For we had looked to find a city
in keeping with these surroundings,--of fairy palaces and stately
mansions; in place whereof was nought but a wilderness of mean, low,
squalid houses, with meandering, ill-paved alleys, and all past
everything for unsavoury smells,--heaps of refuse lying before every
door, stark naked brats of children screaming everywhere, and a pack of
famished dogs snapping at our heels.

Don Sanchez leads the way, we following, with rueful looks one at the
other, till we reach the market-place, and there he takes us into a
house of entertainment, where a dozen Moors are squatting on their
haunches in groups about sundry bowls of a smoking mess, called
cuscusson, which is a kind of paste with a little butter in it and a
store of spices. Their manner of eating it is simple enough: each man
dips his hand in the pot, takes out a handful, and dances it about till
it is fashioned into a ball, and then he eats it with all the gusto in
the world. For our repast we were served with a joint of roast mutton,
and this being cut up, we had to take up in our hands and eat like any
savages,--their religion denying these Moors anything but the bare
necessities of life. Also, their law forbids the drinking of wine, which
did most upset Jack Dawson, he having for drink with his meat nothing
but the choice of water and sour milk; but which he liked least I know
not, for he would touch neither, saying he would rather go dry any day
than be poisoned with such liquor.

Whilst we were at our meal, a good many Moors came in to stare at us, as
at a raree show, and especially at Moll, whose bright clothes and loose
hair excited their curiosity, for their women do rarely go abroad,
except they be old, and wear only long dirty white robes, muffling the
lower part of their faces. None of them smiled, and it is noticeable
that these people, like our own Don, do never laugh, taking such
demonstration as a sign of weak understanding and foolishness, but
watching all our actions very intently. And presently an old Moor, with
a white beard and more cleanly dressed than the rest, pushing the crowd
aside to see what was forward, recognised Don Sanchez, who at once rose
to his