somebody's dunghill, a skeleton dog prowls by for garbage.

Everywhere is the loud rush or the low crooning of water, and over every
wall comes the scent of jasmine and rose. Far off, from the red
purgatory between the walls, sounds the savage thrum-thrum of a negro
orgy, here all is peace and perfume. A minaret springs up between the
roofs like a palm, and from its balcony the little white figure bends
over and drops a blessing on all the loveliness and all the squalor.




IV


MARRAKECH


I

THE WAY THERE

There are countless Arab tales of evil Djinns who take the form of
sandstorms and hot winds to overwhelm exhausted travellers.

In spite of the new French road between Rabat and Marrakech the memory
of such tales rises up insistently from every mile of the level red
earth and the desolate stony stretches of the _bled_. As long as the
road runs in sight of the Atlantic breakers they give the scene
freshness and life, but when it bends inland and stretches away across