enware jars, clay lamps, a
mattress, and perhaps a tea-kettle fulfil all requirements.

A dazzling, white-domed saint's shrine within four square walls lights the
landscape here and there, and gives to some douar such glory as a holy man
can yield when he has been dead so long that none can tell the special
direction his holiness took. The zowia serves several useful purposes. The
storks love to build upon it, and perhaps the influence of its rightful
owner has something to do with the good character of the interesting young
birds that we see plashing about in the marshes, and trying to catch fish
or frogs with something of their parents' skill. Then, again, the zowia
shelters the descendants of the holy man, who prey upon passers in the
name of Allah and of the departed.

Beyond one of the villages graced with the shrine of a forgotten saint, I
chanced upon a poor Moorish woman washing clothes at the edge of a pool.
She used a native grass-seed in place of soap, and made the linen very
white with it. On a great stone by the water's edge sat a very old and
very black slave, and I tried with Salam's aid to chat with him. But he
had no more than one sentence. "I have seen many Sultans," he cried
feebly, and to every question he responded with these same words. Two tiny
village boys stood hand in hand before him and repeated his words,
wondering. It was a curious picture and set in striking colour, for the
fields all round us were full of rioting irises, poppies, and convolvuli;
the sun that gilded them was blazing down upon the old fellow's
unprotected head. Gnats were assailing him in legions, singing their
flattering song as they sought to draw his blood.[13] Before us on a hill
two meadows away stood the douar, its conical huts thatched with black
straw and striped palmetto, its zowia with minaret points at each corner
of the protecting walls, and a stork on one leg in the foreground. It cost
me some effort to tear myself away from the place, and as I remounted and
prepared to ride off the veteran cried once more, "I have seen many
Sultans." Then the stork left his perch on the zowia's walls, and settled
by the marsh, clapping his mandibles as though to confirm the old man's
statement, and the little boys took up the cry, not knowing what they
said. He had seen many Sultans. The Praise to Allah, so had not I.

[Illustration: ON GUARD]

By another douar, this time on the outskirts of the R'hamna country, we
paused fo