to one another with harsh, frightened cries.  At his side lay the dusty road, hemmed in by walls of cactus, and along its narrow length came lines of patient little donkeys with jangling necklaces, led by wild-looking men from the farm-lands and the desert, and women muffled and shapeless, with only their bare feet showing, who looked at him curiously or meaningly from over the protecting cloth, and passed on, leaving him startled and wondering.  He began to find that the books he had brought wearied him.  The sight of the type alone was enough to make him close the covers and start up restlessly to look for something less absorbing.  He found this on every hand, in the lazy patience of the bazaars and of the markets, where the chief service of all was that of only standing and waiting, and in the farm-lands behind Tangier, where half-naked slaves drove great horned buffalo, and turned back the soft, chocolate-colored sod with a wooden plough.  But it was a solitary, selfish holiday, and Holcombe found himself wanting certain ones at home to bear him company, and was surprised to find that of these none were the men nor the women with whom his interests in the city of New York were the most closely connected.  They were rather foolish people, men at whom he had laughed and whom he had rather pitied for having made him do so, and women he had looked at distantly as of a kind he might understand when his work was over and he wished to be amused.  The young girls to whom he was in the habit of pouring out his denunciations of evil, and from whom he was accustomed to receive advice and moral support, he could not place in this landscape.  He felt uneasily that they would not allow him to enjoy it his own way; they would consider the Moor historically as the invader of Catholic Europe, and would be shocked at the lack of proper sanitation, and would see the mud.  As for himself, he had risen above seeing the mud.  He looked up now at the broken line of the roof-tops against the blue sky, and when a hooded figure drew back from his glance he found himself murmuring the words of an Eastern song he had read in a book of Indian stories: 

  “Alone upon the house-tops, to the north
    I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,—­
  The glamour of thy footsteps in the north. 
    Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

  “Below my feet the still bazaar is laid. 
    Far, far below, the weary camels lie—­”

Holcombe laughed and shrugged his shoulders.  He had stopped half-way down the hill on which stands the Bashaw’s palace, and the whole of Tangier lay below him like a great cemetery of white marble.  The moon was shining clearly over the town and the sea, and a soft wind from the sandy farm-lands came to him and played about him like the fragrance of a garden.  Something moved in him that he did not recognize, but which was strangely pleasant, and which ran to his brain like the taste of a strong liqueur.  It came to him that he was alone among strangers, and that what he did now would be known but to himself and to these strangers.  What it was that he wished to do he did not know, but he felt a sudden lifting up and freedom from restraint.  The spirit of adventure awoke in him and tugged at his sleeve, and he was conscious of a desire to gratify it and put it to the test.