I sent for Salam, and, as he approached, a chorus of explanations came to him from all sides.  The pigeon came from the zowia of El Hanchen.  It was sacred—­that is why it was so fat.  This was a bad beginning, and a matter that demanded careful handling.  So I sent M’Barak, representing official Morocco, to express to El Hanchen’s headman my extreme sorrow and sincere regret.  The blessed one was instructed to assure the village that I had no suspicion of the bird’s holiness, and that it was my rule in life to respect everything that other men respected.  It seemed courteous to await the kaid’s return before resuming operations, and he came back in half an hour with word that the headman, while deeply regretting the incident, recognised the absence of bad intention.  He asked that the sacred slain might not be eaten.  I sent back word thanking him for his courteous acceptance of my explanations, and promising that the fat pigeon should receive decent burial.  A small hole was dug on the sunny side of the fig-tree, and there the sacred bird was interred.  I hope that the worms proved as particular as we had been.

Duty done, we went off to the woods, the beaters, now quite reassured, driving stock-doves over in quantities that left no reason to fear about the muleteers’ supper.  While birds were the quarry the lads worked well, but now and again a hare would start from her form, and every boy would join in the headlong, hopeless chase that ensued.  It was impossible to check them, and equally impossible to shoot at the hare.  While she was within gunshot the lads were close on her heels, and by the time she had distanced them or dashed into the long grasses and scrub she was out of range or out of sight.  In vain I waved them back and complained when they returned panting; as soon as another hare got up they went after her in the same way, until at last, taking advantage of a wild chase that had carried them rather a longer distance than usual, I took a sharp turn and strolled away quite by myself.  I heard the excited cries die away in the distance, and then for some few moments the forest silence was broken only by the rustle of the breeze through the grass, and the sudden scream of a startled jay.  Doves went happily from tree to tree and I never put my gun up.  I had heard a very familiar sound, and wanted to be assured that my ears were not deceived.  No, I was right; I could hear the cuckoo, calling through the depth of the forest, as though it were my favourite Essex copse at home.  It was pleasant, indeed, to hear the homely notes so far from any other object, even remotely, connected with England.

I strolled for an hour or more, listening to the “wandering voice,” heedless of what passed me by, at peace with all the world, and resolved to shoot no more.  Alas, for good intentions!  Coming suddenly into a great clearing girdled by argan trees, I flushed two large birds some forty yards away.  The first was missed, the second came down and proved to be a Lesser Bustard or boozerat—­quite a prize.  Well content, I emptied the gun to avoid temptation and walked back to the camp, where there was quite a fair bag.