here are
thieves abroad the zariba will not keep them out, and if there are no
thieves a tired traveller may forget his fatigue.

On the road we meet few wayfarers, and those we encounter are full of
suspicion. Now and again we pass some country kaid or khalifa out on
business. As many as a dozen well-armed slaves and retainers may follow
him, and, as a rule, he rides a well-fed Barb with a fine crimson saddle
and many saddle cloths. Over his white djellaba is a blue selham that
came probably from Manchester; his stirrups are silver or plated. He
travels unarmed and seldom uses spurs--a packing needle serves as an
effective substitute. When he has spurs they are simply spear-heads--sharp
prongs without rowels. The presence of Unbelievers in the country of the
True Faith is clearly displeasing to him, but he is nearly always diplomat
enough to return my laboured greeting, though doubtless he curses me
heartily enough under his breath. His road lies from village to village,
his duty to watch the progress of the harvest for his overlord. Even the
locusts are kinder than the country kaids. But so soon as the kaid has
amassed sufficient wealth, the governor of his province, or one of the
high wazeers in the Sultan's capital, will despoil him and sell his place
to the highest bidder, and in the fulness of time the Sultan will send for
that wazeer or governor, and treat him in similar fashion. "Mektub," it is
written, and who shall avoid destiny?[11]

[Illustration: NEAR A WELL IN THE TOWN]

When the way is long and the sun hot, pack and saddle animals come
together, keeping a level pace of some five miles an hour, and Salam or
the Maalem beguiles the tedium of the way with song or legend. The Maalem
has a song that was taught him by one of his grandfather's slaves, in the
far-off days when Mulai Mohammed reigned in Red Marrakesh. In this chant,
with its weird monotonous refrain, the slaves sing of their journey
from the lands of the South, the terrors of the way, the lack of food and
water. It is a dismal affair enough, but the Maalem likes it, and Salam,
riding under a huge Tetuan hat, carrying my shot gun, in case some fresh
meat should come along, and keeping watchful eye on the mules, joins
lustily in the refrain. Salam has few songs of his own, and does not care
to sing them, lest his importance should suffer in the native eyes, but he
possesses a stock of Arabian Nights' legends, and quotes them as though
they were pa