the moments when "the
Wolf-tail[21] sweeps the paling east."

I looked out of my little room that opened on to the patio. The arch of
heaven was swept and garnished, and from "depths blown clear of cloud"
great stars were shining whitely. The breeze of early morning stirred,
penetrating our barred outer gates, and bringing a subtle fragrance from
the beflowered groves that lie beyond the city. It had a freshness that
demanded from one, in tones too seductive for denial, prompt action.
Moreover, we had been rising before daylight for some days past in order
that we might cover a respectable distance before the Enemy should begin
to blaze intolerably above our heads, commanding us to seek the shade of
some chance fig-tree or saint's tomb.

So I roused Salam, and together we drew the creaking bolts, bringing the
kaid to his feet with a jump. There was plenty of time for explanation,
because he always carried his gun, at best a harmless weapon, in the old
flannel case secured by half a dozen pieces of string, with knots that
defied haste. He warned us not to go out, since the djinoon were always
abroad in the streets before daylight; but, seeing our minds set, he
bolted the door upon us, as though to keep them from the Dar al Kasdir,
and probably returned to his slumbers.

[Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR]

Beyond the house, in a faint glow that was already paling the stars, the
African city, well-nigh a thousand years old, assumed its most mysterious
aspect. The high walls on either side of the roads, innocent of casements
as of glass, seemed, in the uncertain light, to be tinted with violet amid
their dull grey. The silence was complete and weird. Never a cry from
man or beast removed the first impression that this was a city of the
dead. The entrances of the bazaars in the Kaisariyah, to which we turned,
were barred and bolted, their guardians sat motionless, covered in white
djellabas, that looked like shrouds. The city's seven gates were fast
closed, though doubtless there were long files of camels and market men
waiting patiently without. The great mansions of the wazeers and the
green-tiled palace of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz--Our Victorious Master the
Sultan--seemed unsubstantial as one of those cities that the mirage had
set before us in the heart of the R'hamna plains. Salam, the untutored man
from the far Riff country, felt the spell of the silent morning hour. It
was a primitive appeal, to which he responded instantly,