from forgotten ancestors to unborn descendants, that no native could stand up for long against the flashing eye, the quivering forefinger, the foul and bitter tongue of him.  There were times, then and later on, when the Maalem seemed to be some Moorish connection of Captain Kettle’s family, and after reflecting upon my experience among hard-swearing men of many nations, seafarers, land-sharks, beach-combers and the rest, I award the Maalem pride of place.  You will find him to-day in Djedida, baking his bread with the aid of the small apprentice who looks after the shop when he goes abroad, or enjoying the dreams of the haschisch eater when his work is done.  He is no man’s enemy, and the penalty of his shortcomings will probably fall upon no body or soul save his own.  A picturesque figure, passionate yet a philosopher, patiently tolerant of blinding heat, bad roads, uncomfortable sleeping quarters and short commons, the Maalem will remain alive and real in my memory long after the kaids and wazeers and other high dignitaries of his country are no more than dimly splendid shadows, lacking altogether in individuality.

I learned to enjoy Djedida by night.  Then the town was almost as silent as our camp below Mediunah had been.  The ramparts left by the Portuguese and the white walls of the city itself became all of a piece, indistinct and mysterious as the darkness blended them.  Late camels coming into the town to seek the security of some fandak would pad noiselessly past me; weird creatures from the under-world they seemed, on whom the ghostlike Arabs in their white djellabas were ordered to attend.  Children would flit to and fro like shadows, strangely quiet, as though held in thrall even in the season of their play by the solemn aspect of the surroundings.  The market-place and road to the landing-stage would be deserted, the gates of the city barred, and there was never a light to be seen save where some wealthy Moor attended by lantern-bearing slaves passed to and from his house.  One night by the Kasbah the voice of a watchman broke upon the city’s silence, at a time when the mueddin was at rest, and it was not incumbent upon the faithful to pray.  “Be vigilant, O guardians,” he cried,—­“be vigilant and do not sleep.”  Below, by my side, on the ground, the guardians, wrapped warm in their djellabas, dreamed on, all undisturbed.

By night, too, the pariah dogs, scavengers of all Mohammedan cities, roamed at their ease and leisure through Djedida, so hungry and so free from daintiness that no garbage would be left on the morrow.  Moorish houses have no windows fronting the road—­decency forbids, and though there might have been ample light within, the bare walls helped to darken the pathway, and it was wise to walk warily lest one should tumble over some beggar asleep on the ground.

[Illustration:  SUNSET OFF THE COAST]