Here the village folk were able to keep themselves posted in the country’s contemporary history, for traders had come from all points of the compass, and had met men at other markets who, in their turn, brought news from places still more remote.  Consequently you might learn in Hanchen’s Tuesday market what the Sultan was doing in Fez, and how the Rogui was occupied in Er-Riff.  French penetration in the far-off districts of no man’s land beyond Tafilalt was well-known to these travelling market-folk; the Saharowi had spoken with the heads of a caravan that had come with slaves from Ghadames, by way of the Tuat, bound for Marrakesh.  Resting by day and travelling by night, they had passed without challenge through the French lines.  A visitor knowing Arabic and Shilha, and able to discount the stories properly, might have had a faithful picture of Morocco as its own people see it, had he been admitted to join the weather-worn, hardy traders who sat complacently eyeing their diminished store towards the close of day.  Truth is nowhere highly esteemed in Morocco,[52] and the colouring superimposed upon most stories must have destroyed their original hue, but it served to please the Moors and Berbers who, like the men of other countries one knows, have small use for unadorned facts.  Perhaps the troubles that were reported from every side of the doomed country accounted for the professional story-teller’s thin audience.  By the side of tales that had some connection with fact the salt of his legends lost its savour.

[Illustration:  IN CAMP]

Towards evening the crowd melted away silently, as it had come.  A few mules passed along the road to Mogador, the Bedouin and his company moved off in the direction of Saffi, and the greater part of the traders turned south-east to M’touga, where there was a Thursday market that could be reached in comfort.  Hanchen retired within its boundaries, rich in the proceeds of the sale of fodder, which had been in great demand throughout the day.  Small companies of boys roamed over the market-place, seeking to snap up any trifles that had been left behind, just as English boys will at the Crystal Palace or Alexandra Park, after a firework display.  The Moorish youngsters had even less luck than their English brethren, for in Morocco, where life is simple and men need and have little, everything has its use, and a native throws nothing away.  The dogs, eager to forestall the vultures, were still fighting among themselves for the offal left by the butcher, when the villagers, who had come to take a late cup of tea with Salam and M’Barak, resumed their slippers, testified to the Unity of Allah, and turned to ascend Hanchen’s steep hill.