rt of Al Koran.

Now and again, in some of the waste and stony places beyond Dukala's
boundaries, we come across a well, literally a well in the desert, with
husbandmen gathered about it and drawing water in their goat-skin buckets,
that are tied to long palmetto ropes made by the men of the neighbouring
villages. The water is poured into flat, puddled troughs, and the thirsty
flocks and herds drink in turn, before they march away to hunt for such
scanty herbage as the land affords. The scene round these wells is
wonderfully reminiscent of earliest Bible times, particularly so where the
wandering Bedouins bring their flocks to water from the inhospitable
territory of the Wad Nun and deserts below the Sus.

I note with pleasure the surprising dignity of the herdsmen, who make far
less comment upon the appearance of the stranger in these wild places than
we should make upon the appearance of a Moor or Berber in a London street.

The most unmistakable tribute to the value of the water is paid by the
skeletons of camels, mules, sheep and goats that mark the road to the
well. They tell the tale of animals beaten by the Enemy in their last
stride. It is not easy for a European to realise the suffering these
strange lands must see when the summer drought is upon the face of the
earth. Perhaps they are lessened among the human sufferers by the very
real fatalism that accepts evil as it accepts good, without grief and
without gladness, but always with philosophic calm; at least we should
call it philosophic in a European; superstitious fatalism, of course, in a
Moor.

[Illustration: MOORISH WOMAN AND CHILD]

The earliest and latest hours of our daily journey are, I think, the best.
When afternoon turns toward evening in the fertile lands, and the great
heat begins to pass, countless larks resume their song, while from every
orchard one hears the subdued murmur of doves or the mellow notes of the
nightingale. Storks sweep in wide circles overhead or teach their awkward
young the arts of flight, or wade solemnly in search of supper to some
marsh where the bull-frogs betray their presence by croaking as loudly as
they can. The decline of the sun is quite rapid--very often the afterglow
lights us to our destination. It is part of the Maalem's duty to decide
upon the place of our nightly sojourn, and so to regulate the time of
starting, the pace, and the mid-day rest, that he may bring us to the
village or n'zala in time to get t