lly
in the waves, slipping over black rock, with deep pools on each side. It
was a grey day, not hot, and the hard flat sands, across which we rode
for the most part, were excellent going.

The only wayfarers we met, tramped along behind camels. Untrustworthy
brutes these animals are, especially the bubbling ones, out of whose way
we most cautiously kept; for though a camel seldom bites, when he does it
is serious. He never forgets an injury. A man in Mogador ill-treated one
badly a few years ago: it went into the interior for a year, and came
back to Mogador, and met and knew the man at once, taking him by the
nape of the neck, as is its habit, and tearing the back of his skull off.

The sandy dunes on our right were covered with _r`tam_ (white broom),
slender, waving, silver-green stems, in seed just then. Only r`tam could
grow in such poor soil. When we turned inland we found ourselves amongst
dense undergrowth, a small forest, consisting chiefly of _tugga_ (a sort
of juniper), of myrtle, _sidra_ bushes, and other shrubs, intersected by
narrow paths, along one of which we paced in single file, the limestone
which crops up all over the country making our pace a slow one. It was
the middle of the day when we found ourselves in the thick of this
jungle. Omar pointed out a little sandy clearing, and in amongst the
bushes, out of earshot of the track, we halted for lunch. The mules had
their packs taken off, and rolled themselves in the sand. A carpet was
spread on a bank; and there, with the sea still to be seen behind us, the
thickets echoing with familiar blackbirds, and every space glowing with
thyme, iris, lavender, and other flowers, we spent the first of many lazy
hours of the sort. Alas! our camel was still behind us, and never turned
up: that was a wretched piece of _bundobust_. But long before we quitted
Morocco we vowed never to have a camel for baggage again.

Only half-an-hour's halt we allowed ourselves; then saddled up, and were
off again. Still through "jungle," and by a sandy path the trail led us,
blocked often by stones and rocks, truly one of those

. . . sad highways, left at large
To ruts and stones and lovely Nature's skill,
Who is no pavior.

The flowers became more interesting at every step; but there was little
time to get off and collect specimens, though the path was so narrow
that, riding along, pink climbing convolvulus and tall lavender could
easily be gathered off the bu