[Illustration:  HOUSE-TOPS, MOGADOR]

So it happened that my morning ride with the hardy hunter, whose achievements bulk next to those of the late Sir John Drummond Hay in the history of Moorish sport, had an interest that did not depend altogether upon the wild forest paths through which he led the way.  He told me how at daybreak the pack of cross-bred hounds came from garden, copse, and woodland, racing to the steps of the Palm Tree House, and giving tongue lustily, as though they knew there was sport afoot.  One or two grizzled huntsmen who had followed every track in the Argan Forest were waiting in the patio for his final instructions, and he told them of hoof prints that had revealed to his practised eye a “solitaire” boar of more than ordinary size.  He had tracked it for more than three hours on the previous day, past the valley where our tents were set, and knew now where the lair was chosen.

“He has been lying under an argan tree, one standing well away from the rest at a point where the stream turns sharply, about a mile from the old kasbah in the wood, and he has moved now to make a new lair.  I have made a note of his feet in my book; he had been wallowing less than twenty-four hours before when I found him.  To-morrow, when we hunt the beast I hope to track to-day, the pack will follow in charge of the huntsmen.  They will be taken through the wood all the way, for it is necessary to avoid villages and cattle pasture when you have more than a score of savage dogs that have not been fed since three o’clock on the previous afternoon.  They are by no means averse from helping themselves to a sheep or a goat at such times.”

We had ridden in single file through a part where the lotus, now a tree instead of a bush, snatched at us on either side, and the air was fragrant with broom, syringa, and lavender.  Behind us the path closed and was hidden; before us it was too thick to see more than a few yards ahead.  Here and there some bird would scold and slip away, with a flutter of feathers and a quiver of the leaves through which it fled; while ever present, though never in sight, the cuckoo followed us the whole day long.  Suddenly and abruptly the path ended by the side of a stream where great oleanders spread their scarlet blossoms to the light, and kingfishers darted across the pools that had held tiny fish in waters left by the rainy season.  When we pushed our horses to the brink the bushes on either hand showered down their blossoms as though to greet the first visitors to the rivulet’s bank.  Involuntarily we drew rein by the water’s edge, acknowledging the splendour of the scene with a tribute of silence.  If you have been in the Western Highlands of Scotland, and along the Levantine Riviera, and can imagine a combination of the most fascinating aspects of both districts, you have but to add to them the charm of silence and complete seclusion, the sense of virgin soil, and the joy of a perfect day in early summer, and then some faint picture of the scene may present itself.  It remains with me always, and the mere mention of the Argan Forest brings it back.