yer I seem to see the bull-ring
again, and in place of the dilals the cuadrillas of the Matadors coming
out to salute, before the alguazils open the gates of the toril and the
slaying begins. The dramatic intensity of either scene connects for me
this slave market in Marrakesh with the plaza de toros in the shadow of
the Giralda tower in Sevilla. Strange to remember now and here, that the
man who built the Kutubia tower for this thousand-year-old-city of Yusuf
ben Tachfin, gave the Giralda to Andalusia.

Prayers are over--the last Amen is said. The dilals separate, each one
going to the pens he presides over, and calling upon their tenants to come
forth. These selling men move with a dignity that is quite Eastern, and
speak in calm and impressive tones. They lack the frenzied energy of their
brethren who traffic in the bazaars.

[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO THE SOK EL ABEED]

Obedient to the summons, the slaves face the light, the sheds yield up
their freight, and there are a few noisy moments, bewildering to the
novice, in which the auctioneers place their goods in line, rearrange
dresses, give children to the charge of adults, sort out men and women
according to their age and value, and prepare for the promenade. The
slaves will march round and round the circle of the buyers, led by the
auctioneers, who will proclaim the latest bid and hand over any one of
their charges to an intending purchaser, that he may make his examination
before raising the price. In the procession now forming for the first
parade, five, if not six, of the seven ages set out by the melancholy
Jaques are represented. There are men and women who can no longer walk
upright, however the dilal may insist; there are others of middle age,
with years of active service before them; there are young men full of
vigour and youth, fit for the fields, and young women, moving for once
unveiled yet unrebuked, who will pass at once to the hareem. And there are
children of every age, from babies who will be sold with their mothers to
girls and boys upon the threshold of manhood and womanhood. All are
dressed in bright colours and displayed to the best advantage, that the
hearts of bidders may be moved and their purses opened widely.

"It will be a fine sale," says my neighbour, a handsome middle-aged Moor
from one of the Atlas villages, who had chosen his place before I reached
the market. "There must be well nigh forty slaves, and this is good,
seeing that