But it must not be thought that the Argan Forest is composed entirely of these trees.  The argan dominates the forest but does not account for its beauty.  The r’tam is almost as plentiful, and lends far more to the wood’s colour scheme, for its light branches are stirred by every breeze.  Dwarf-palm is to be found on all sides, together with the arar or citrus, and the double-thorned lotus.  The juniper, wild pear, and cork trees are to be met with now and again, and the ground is for the most part a sea of flowers almost unknown to me, though I could recognise wild thyme, asphodel, and lavender amid the tamarisk and myrtle undergrowth.  At intervals the forest opens, showing some large douar that was built probably on the site of a well, and there industrious village folks have reclaimed the land, raised crops, and planted orchards.  Olive, fig, and pomegranate seem to be the most popular trees, and corn is grown in the orchards too, possibly in order that it may have the benefit of the trees’ shade.  The soil that can raise corn and fruit trees together must have exceptional vitality and richness, particularly in view of the fact that it is in no way fed, and is rather scraped or scratched than truly ploughed.

The village of Hanchen, known for miles round as “Sok Thalata” by reason of its weekly gathering, might well serve to justify a halt.  It straggles over a hill surrounded on all sides by the forest, it has a saint’s shrine of fair size and imposing aspect, a good supply of water, and very peaceful inhabitants.  At the base of the slope, some fifty yards from the broad track leading to the coast, there was an orchard of more than common beauty, even for Southern Morocco.  The pomegranates, aflower above the ripening corn, had finer blossoms than any I had seen before, the fig-trees were Biblical in their glossy splendour.  Mules were footsore, the Susi men were tired, the weather was perfect, time was our own for a day or two, and I was aching to take my gun down the long glades that seemed to stretch to the horizon.  So we off-saddled, and pitched our tent in the shadow of a patriarchal fig-tree.  Then the mules were eased of their burdens and fed liberally, Salam standing between the poor beasts and the muleteers, who would have impounded a portion of their hard-earned meal.

The heat of the afternoon was passing; I loaded my gun and started out.  At first sight of the weapon some score of lads from the village—­athletic, vigorous boys, ready to go anywhere and do anything—­made signs that they would come and beat for me.  With Salam’s help I gave them proper instructions; my idea was to shoot enough of fur and feather to give the muleteers a good supper.

At the outset a sorry accident befell.  A fat pigeon came sailing overhead, so well fed that it was hard to believe he was a pigeon at all.  This being the sort of bird that suits hungry men, I fired and was well pleased to note the swift direct fall, and to hear the thud that tells of a clean kill.  To my surprise the beaters remained where they were, none offering to pick up the bird.  There were glum and serious looks on every side.  I motioned one lad to go forward, and, to my amazement, he made the sign that is intended to avert the evil eye, and declared that he took refuge from me with Allah.