ed him my
letter, and I saw a long, closely-shaven face, lighted by a pair of grey
eyes that seemed much younger than the head in which they were set, and
perfectly inscrutable. He read the letter, which was in Arabic, from end
to end, and then gave me stately greeting.

"You are very welcome," he said. "My house and all it holds are yours."

I replied that we wanted nothing more than a modest shelter for the days
of our sojourn in the city. He nodded.

"Had you advised me of your visit in time," he said, "my best house should
have been prepared. Now I will send with you my steward, who has the keys
of all my houses. Choose which you will have." I thanked him, the steward
appeared, a stout, well-favoured man, whose djellaba was finer than his
master's. Sidi Boubikir pointed to certain keys, and at a word several
servants gathered about us. The old man said that he rejoiced to serve the
friend of his friends, and would look forward to seeing me during our
stay. Then we followed into an ill-seeming lane, now growing dark with the
fall of evening.

We turned down an alley more muddy than the one just left behind, passed
under an arch by a fruit stall with a covering of tattered palmetto,
caught a brief glimpse of a mosque minaret, and heard the mueddin calling
the Faithful to evening prayer. In the shadow of the mosque, at the corner
of the high-walled lane, there was a heavy metal-studded door. The steward
thrust a key into its lock, turned it, and we passed down a passage into
an open patio. It was a silent place, beyond the reach of the street
echoes; there were four rooms built round the patio on the ground floor,
and three or four above. One side of the tower of the minaret was visible
from the courtyard, but apart from that the place was nowhere overlooked.
To be sure, it was very dirty, but I had an idea that the steward had
brought his men out for business, not for an evening stroll, so I bade
Salam assure him that this place, known to the Marrakshis as Dar al
Kasdir,[19] would serve our purposes.

A thundering knock at the gate announced a visitor, one of Sidi Boubikir's
elder sons, a civil, kindly-looking Moor, whose face inspired confidence.
Advised of our choice he suggested we should take a stroll while the men
cleaned and prepared the patio and the rooms opening upon it. Then the
mules, resting for the time in his father's fandak, would bring their
burdens home, and we could enjoy our well-earned rest.