Chapter VIII: Dads to Ul Turug

Although we left the Zauia Aït bu Haddu on November 12, we spent that night in the province of Dads, our road having merely taken us some twelve miles up the river’s course, as far as a _ksar_ in the district of Aït Iunir, which I had promised to visit _en route_, as it was from near this point that the main road to Tafilet leaves the valley to cross the plain of Anbed. The path, for it is no more, winds about amongst the gardens and _ksor_, every few minutes crossing one of the small canals that irrigate the fields, &c. These, where not too deep, are forded, but in many places are crossed with little bridges—merely the trunks of trees laid across from bank to bank, and covered with stones and soil. Only two places of any note are passed on the way, the tomb and sacred groves of Sid bu Yahia, and close to it the _sôk_, or market, of the Khamis, or Thursday. The tomb of the saint is built of _tabia_, and consists of two rooms, in one of which the remains of Sid bu Yahia lie, while the other serves as a mosque. A pointed dome of green tiles covers the former. Near by is the grove of trees, so common an adjunct to sanctuaries in Morocco. They are silver poplars, and of great size. The market-place is only an open space, and the day not being Thursday, it was deserted. There is a second large _sôk_ at Dads—the Arbaa, or Wednesday—a little to the south of Zauia Aït bu Haddu: we had passed through it when nearing Dads on the day of our arrival.

Close to the Sôk el Khamis are the remains of seven villages of Aït Atta, which were destroyed when that tribe made an unsuccessful attempt to wrest the valuable strategical position along the river from its present holders. Up to that date the Attauis had possessed these seven villages; here they were allowed to live in peace, but on the breaking out of open hostilities their _ksor_ were razed.

Sometimes our road led us close to the river’s banks, at others almost under the cliffs that rise to the level of the plain. The water in the river is clear, and of a brilliant blue colour. Fish abound; but although the natives speak of three varieties, I was able to see only one—the barbel. Nor do they keep to the main stream; for the canals, even where only a few feet wide, often contain large shoals of them.

At a large _ksar_, with frowning towers and battlements, the very picture of the dwelling of a Berber chief, we stopped for the night. Our host met us at the gate and welcomed us, taking our donkeys to a stable, where barley was given them to eat, and then leading us within. We ascended innumerable steps until a small suite of rooms, opening on to a piece of flat roof, was reached; here we were installed. It was a charming spot, for far more care and art had been expended upon the building than in any other _ksar_ we had seen; and the walls were clean with whitewash, while the ceiling consisted of a layer of canes, stained red and black, in strange designs, the whole supported on neatly cut beams of unpolished walnut wood. A few rough rugs lay strewn over the floor, and a semblance of comfort was given to the place by some shelves containing a teapot, some bright little cups and saucers, and a brass tray and kettle. Food was soon brought us, the usual _kuskusu_ and boiled turnips, with the extra luxury of a chicken—no small honour in these parts—then tea and dates.

The view from the flat roof on to which the window of the room opened was a very charming one. The vegetation in Aït Iunir is far better than that of the lower districts, and big trees, especially cherry, pear, and walnut, abound. From the summits of the trees rose the surrounding _ksor_, one and all crowned with towers, and of very considerable size. The house in which we were must have covered a couple of acres of land. Yet even here were apparent the signs of the constant state of warfare in which the people of Dads exist, for the walls of the _minzah_ were perforated with bullet-holes, shots from the next-door neighbour, whose castle stood only a couple of hundred yards away. It was on this account, that the feud was still proceeding, that our host made us sit down under the parapet of the wall to eat our meal, lest our appearance might bring down upon us a volley from the people over the way.

In this house I again noticed what I had already seen at the Zauia Aït bu Haddu—namely, the manner in which bees are hived amongst the Berbers. A hollow space is left in the wall of the house, opening into a cupboard within, from which the honey can be removed. A small hole, often only a hollow cane, on the outside of the wall, allows a means of ingress and egress for the bees.

Altogether, the _ksar_ in Aït Iunir where we spent the night of November 12 showed far more signs of prosperity than any we had as yet visited. Not only was it very extensive, but the women wore far more jewellery, their necks being hung with large silver necklaces and coral and amber beads, while the clothes of the men were newer and of better material than usual. Added to this, the presence of such little luxuries as tea-trays and cups spoke of better living than the usual hard fare of the people.

In spite of the long march before us we sat up late, our host insisting on not leaving us until past midnight, and I was only able to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before we were told that it was time to be off.

Miserably cold it was when we girded up our loins and packed our little donkeys for the start, and at such moments as these I almost felt inclined to abandon my risky journey and turn back. The thought that all these hardships would have to be gone through on the return journey, and in far colder weather, was no pleasant one; but I felt I could face them rather than fail to accomplish my object, and so I persisted—until at length my efforts were crowned with success.

In the cold grey dawn we forded the river and ascended the steep slope on its eastern bank, reaching at the summit the commencement of the plain of Anbed, which forms the watershed between the rivers flowing east and west—that is to say, between the basin of the Wad Todghrá, which joins the Gheris near Ul Turug, some ninety miles to the east, and the Wad Dads, the chief tributary of the Wad Draa. Not a vestige of vegetation was to be seen beyond the few dried-up tufts of wild thyme, but a distant view of gazelle and a flock of _muflon_ show that there must be some pasture, probably a little rank grass in the hollows where water lies in the wet season.

The tramp across the dreary desert of Anbed is some fifteen miles in length. The whole way one proceeds almost due east, parallel with the range of Jibel Saghru, and distant from it some eight or ten miles. The same dreary outlook presents itself as did in crossing the strips of desert before arriving at Dads—stone-strewn barren plain and verdureless mountain-ranges on either hand. The peep we obtained of gazelle and _muflon_—Barbary wild sheep—was the only time that, beyond domestic animals, we saw any mammal, with the exception of a striped jerboa, and of these only one or two, during the whole journey from the foot of the Atlas to Tafilet. Hyena I heard of, however, and several of the graveyards we passed were heaped with large stones to prevent their scratching up the bodies.

About twelve miles east of Dads a valley opens up in the plain of Anbed, descending by which one reaches the Wad Imiteghr, which crosses the end of the valley at right angles. There were appearances that the torrent in the gorge must be large in the rainy season, or rather after heavy rainfall—for there is no regular wet season, rain being very scarce, but at this period it was quite dry. A few caves on the north side are used for housing sheep in, at such times as moisture allows of a little grass to grow. The road was very rough, and the bleaching bones of animals showed clearly enough that the boulder-strewn path had proved fatal to many a beast of burden. The descent from Anbed by this valley brings one to a continuation of the plain at a lower level, which extends, falling the while, as far as the valley of the Wad Gheris. On the farther (east) bank of the Wad Imiteghr are a few _ksor_, with an attempt here and there to raise a garden amongst the boulders. The most prosperous of the castles, and that a poor enough place, was pointed out to me as Ighir.

My road from this spot onwards diverged from that usually pursued by caravans between Dads and Todghrá, for while the principal track takes a slightly more northerly direction, we turned a little to the south and followed the course of the Wad Imiteghr, about half a mile from its north bank. The river was at this period tolerably well supplied with water, though the rains had been very scarce and not a drop had fallen since we had left Marakesh three weeks before.

During a long way we only passed two sets of habitations—the settlement of Imiteghr already mentioned, and a few miles further on the still poorer village of Timatruin. In this name, as in so many others amongst the Berbers, the prefix _T_ is only a contraction of the Shelha word _Aït_—“sons of”—and therefore the literal spelling of the name of the place should be Aït Imatruin. The same fact exists in the word Tafilet, which, derived from the Arabic Filàl, a district in Arabia, has received from the Berbers the initial _T_—the contraction of _Aït_; while in this case the final _lt_, or _lat_ as it should be spelt, is a feminine termination.

Ten miles after fording the Wad Imiteghr near Ighir, we reached a group of _ksor_ lying under a spur of Jibel Saghru, which here juts out into the plain, although the river has worn a passage through it by a narrow gorge which divides it from the main range of the Anti-Atlas. The district is inhabited by Aït Mulai Brahim, descendants of the famous Shereef Mulai Brahim, whose tomb is a place of pilgrimage, and is situated above Agregoreh on the northern slope of the Atlas. The same family has given another great saint to Southern Morocco, Mulai Abdullah ben Hoseyn, who lies buried at Tamslot, a few miles south of Marakesh. These tombs, with their large offerings made by pious pilgrims, have much enriched this branch of the Shereefian family, and the present representative, living at Tamslot, Mulai El Haj ben Said, is perhaps the wealthiest man in Southern Morocco.

We were kindly received by the Shereefs, and shown into the mosque, a large building for so small a collection of _ksor_, with a tank for ablutions, and a domed _mihrab_ or niche toward the east.

A few of the Shereefs spoke Arabic, and what with half a dozen other travellers who had sought the mosque of the _zauia_ for a night’s rest, we were a pleasant little party. Sunset prayers over, we sat down on the clean matting and passed the evening in conversation. The topic turned more than once on Christians—for such the natives call all the European peoples, though amongst the Berber the term _Rumin_, or Romans, is more common than _Nazarani_. The ignorance of the Shereefs on all questions out of their own particular sphere was astonishing. They seemed to lack all the brightness and rapidity of thought that I had noticed at Dads, and to have sunk into a sort of sleepy indifference to everything beyond their own immediate surroundings. They asked if Christians were like men and women, and I think doubted my men and myself when we told them they were. I could not venture to point myself out as an example, as not only would I have run a risk of getting my throat cut anywhere in the country, but here in the sacred precincts of the mosque death would have been a certainty, so I satisfied their curiosity by telling them that I had often seen Christians, and that they much resembled “true believers” to look at, but that their language was not the same, but sounded like the gibberings of apes. The conversation took many directions, and I was not greatly surprised to find these far-away Shereefs as ignorant of their own religion as they were of the Christians. I took the opportunity of giving a little discourse on Islam, a by no means difficult task, filling in the gaps with romances as to the doings of Moorish saints, whose histories, or rather, I should say, the traditions relating to whom, are nearly all known to me. Such a good reputation did I obtain for theological knowledge and religious devotion that the Shereefs felt bound to bring me supper from their _ksar_, and my men and I feasted merrily on boiled turnips, while several “true believers” went to bed supperless,—and the infidel and his wicked associates filled themselves with the offerings of the pious. This was by no means the first time on the journey that my knowledge—slight though it is—of Islam and its traditions stood me in good stead, and I am proud to say that wherever I spent a night I left behind me an impression of extreme religious fervour—which must have been sadly upset on my return journey, when, protected by a strong guard against insult or attack, I made my nationality and my disguise known. But of this I shall have more to say anon.

Leaving the _ksor_ of Aït Mulai Brahim before dawn on November 14, we entered, close by, the gorge through which the Wad Imiteghr flows. It is only a mile and a half in length, and ends just as abruptly as it commences. No doubt its formation is owing to the river having forced its way through the projecting spur of Jibel Saghru, which is now separated by this valley from the main chain. The gorge is known by the name of Imin Erkilim—_imin_ (Arabic _fûm_) meaning “a mouth,” while Erkilim may or may not be Hercules, for on my inquiries as to who Erkilim was, I was told that Erkili was a great man, a sort of god, who did something no one quite knew when. From the name given me being Erkili, I presume the final _m_ to distinguish the genitive case; but this is merely a surmise.

One emerges from the narrow valley, with its cliffs of rock on either hand, close to the village of Aït bu Kanifen, the inhabitants of which are celebrated robbers, often attacking any caravan that may chance to use this route in the valley the end of which their _ksor_ commands. A few hundred yards of desert beyond and we entered the luxuriant palm-groves of Tiluin, or Aït Iluin, where is a large and flourishing _ksar_. These were the first palm-trees we had come across since Askura, for at Dads and the other oasis we had passed through they were entirely absent. Issuing from the pleasant shade of the groves, we crossed again a couple of miles of desert, at the termination of which we entered the southern extremity of the oasis of Todghrá, the immense palm-groves of which were clearly visible winding for many miles up the river of the same name. It is close to this spot that the Wad Imiteghr empties itself into the Todghrá at an elevation of 4250 feet above the sea-level.

We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand, black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible, but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way.

The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east, but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north, continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of Ferkla is reached.

Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief, for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst, there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot, nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.

We wandered on for what seemed to me an interminable distance amongst the palm-groves, passing many _ksor_, at each of which I hoped in turn we were about to take up our quarters for the night, and each of which we passed by without entering. I had placed myself and my plans entirely in the hands of the _zitat_—our guarantee—from Dads, and left everything to him. He was an excellent fellow, and his opinion of myself seemed to increase when he found I could trudge my forty miles or so a-day with an appearance—though by no means a true one—of little inconvenience. He was a typical Berber this latest addition to our party, some 6 feet in height, with a fair white skin and dark eyes and eyebrows. His face was clean shaven except for the small pointed beard on the end of his chin, and a remarkably handsome face it was. But his heart was better even than his looks, and more than once, as we tried to sleep of a night, our teeth chattering with the frost, he would cover me with his warm cloak, sharing it with me until I slept, when he would give up his half so that I might be warmer—and in the morning tell a dozen lies, saying that he had been so hot he had kicked it off, and it was only by accident that I had found myself warm and comfortable, and him half frozen.

I think the only qualms of conscience I felt at being in disguise were with this good fellow, for as yet he had not the faintest idea of my identity. So much did this trouble me that I took advantage of our lying huddled together under his warm cloak that night to tell him the whole story of my journey, whispered, lest we should be overheard. He said but little, but I knew full well that I could trust him, and in the morning I was warm, wrapped up in his _haidus_, and he, only in his _chamira_, shivered with the frost. If anything his attention to my comforts increased after I had confided to him the fact of my disguise; and every now and then he would burst out into the merriest of laughs as we trudged along, thinking the whole affair a tremendous joke, and reiterating his approval of my venturing where none had ever trod, and where my life if discovered was worth probably about half-an-hour’s purchase. Nor was his astonishment at my knowledge of Arabic—imperfect though it is—a small one; for, himself a Berber, he too spoke it as a foreign tongue, and if anything not so fluently as myself.

At length after dark we reached the principal _ksar_ of Ferkla—Asrir by name—where we put up for the night. It was the largest village we had as yet come across in the Sahara, enclosed in high _tabia_ walls, and boasting a number of well-built houses, and even a few shops. It lacked, however, the picturesque appearance of many _ksor_ that we had seen upon our road; for the tall towers with their decorations and battlements and turrets were absent, the style of architecture resembling far more that found in the towns of Morocco. In fact, Asrir may be more fitly described as a town than a _ksar_, for within its walls it is divided up into streets, many of them of the same tunnel-like formation as one is so used to in Fez, for instance, the houses meeting overhead. In a large square near the gateway—for there is only one entrance to Asrir—were collected a number of soldiers on horseback and mules and camels, almost the first signs we had as yet come across of the proximity of the Sultan’s army, which had a few days previously reached Tafilet. These soldiers consisted for the most part of mounted messengers returning to Morocco, and it was piteous to hear them asking questions as to the length of the road before them, and the state of the pass over the Atlas; for after their weary wandering of some eight months in the fastnesses of the mountains and the desert beyond, both they and their poor horses were well-nigh starved. I came across one little party of five or six men, all of whom were well known to me, servants of one of the Kaids, or governors, of a district in North Morocco. The recognition gave me at first a start; but I quickly realised that it was scarcely likely to be mutual, and that it was by no means probable they would discover under the dirt and rags of a donkey-driver the man whom they had known travelling with a large camp in European costume. None the less I gave them a wide berth, and was glad to hide myself away in the darkest corner of a caravanserai, where we took up our quarters for the night. The place consisted of an open yard surrounded on all sides by a covered arcade, the roof of which was supported on pillars of _tabia_. Quite a crowd was collected here for the night, for not only were there a number of soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, but also camp-followers returning homewards, and Jews bound for Tafilet to see what they could pick up in the oasis, where Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan, was, accompanied by some 40,000 people.

Several tribes hold districts of Ferkla, a state of affairs that leads to constant warfare. The principal divisions are members of the (i.) Aït Merghad, (ii.) Aït Isdeg, (iii.) Aït Yafalman, and (iv.) the Arab tribe of Alh Ferkla. There are also several _mellahs_ of Jews.

The oasis, which is very extensive, is watered from the Wad Todghrá, which flows through its midst, supplying innumerable canals. Altogether it is said to contain upwards of forty large _ksor_, one or two of which, I was informed, can put as many as from 300 to 400 men into the field in time of war. I found the elevation of Asrir to be 3260 feet above the sea-level.

Stowed away in the corner of the _fondak_, or caravanserai, I ran no risk of detection, and was able to watch the scene around me from a point of vantage offering not only safety from detection, but also some shelter from the frosty night-air. The crowd, illumined by the lanterns that many of them bore, passed and repassed, struggling for barley for their animals and food for themselves. Near us was a rough extemporised oven of earth, at which a number of half-nude Haratin, natives of the banks of the Wad Draa, were cooking _shua_—boiled mutton—in tiny, and none too clean, wooden bowls. We procured a couple of these for a small price, and enjoyed the luxury of real meat.

One fact that I had been noticing all along the road here thrust itself before me more than ever—namely, the entire absence of the camel. One would naturally expect to find him in this portion of trans-Atlas Morocco, but except for a few coming from the camp at Tafilet, I saw absolutely none. The fact is, the Berbers have never taken to the camel, and for some reason or other highly disapprove of him—why, I was unable to discover. However, on more than one occasion I have heard the Berber in chaff call an Arab a camel-driver—no doubt a term of reproach in his eyes. For beasts of burden the small mules of the district seem to have taken their place, and no doubt they are more economical with food. The camel, it is true, is easily fed where there is grazing to be found; but in these dry districts where all its fodder would have to be grown for the purpose, his keep would be far more heavy than that of the tiny mules in use, which scarcely eat more than a donkey, and subsist largely on dates.

We left Asrir at dawn on November 15, passing out of the _ksar_ as soon as the gate was open, for it is kept closed during the night, a custom in practice all through these districts.

Our road lay for an hour through the palm-groves, ever crossing the little canals of clear water. We picked up a good supply of dates from beneath the trees for one day’s provisions for the march, and a handful or two were given us now and again by the natives, many of whom were engaged in harvesting the fruit, and who, evidently attracted by the string of big wooden beads round my neck, mistook us for a party of wandering devotees of the sect of the Derkauiya. Whatever may have been their object in bestowing upon us charity, it was welcome enough, and for once we set out on our day’s tramp with the certainty of a mid-day meal.

We forded the Wad Todghrá, first, at a spot where it flows over its wide bed amongst the palm-groves, and then again near where it issues from the oasis to pursue its course to the east. Then desert again, only here a scrubby bush covered the arid waste, thorny mimosas for the most part, called by the Arabs _sidra_, with spikes all over it that tear one’s clothes as one proceeds. To the north-east the horizon was bounded by a low line of yellow cliffs, close beneath which we could distinguish the oasis of Gheris, to which De Foucauld, after leaving Ferkla, pursued his journey of exploration. Our roads had been parallel, and in some places identical, from Dads to this spot, but from here on to Tafilet I had an untrodden and unmapped way before me. To the east again of Gheris the palm-trees of Tiluin—Aït Iluin—were to be descried. This oasis is said to be the original home of the tribe, which we had already come across near the southern end of Todghrá, and through another territory of which we were to pass the following day.

A few miles outside the limit of the palm-groves of Ferkla the road passes between two conical hills, of no great altitude, that on the right (south) being, however, the larger of the two. On the slope of the smaller one a ruined saint’s tomb stands; but I was unable to find out the name of the man whose bones lie in this desolate spot. On my return journey from Tafilet we followed another road more to the south, which passes to the farther side of the southernmost of these two hills, near the small settlement of Islef, a division of the tribe of Aït Merghad.

Half a mile to the east of these two hills is a ruined _kasba_, or residence of a governor, who is said to have shared the same fate as his castle—to have been pulled to pieces.

Ten miles from Ferkla the road takes a turn to the south, and enters a valley of Jibel Saghru, to which range, since leaving Dads, we had been travelling parallel. Through this valley the Wad Todghrá flows, dividing the range into two parts, that on the east being known as Jibel el Kebir, “the great mountain,” though why it is difficult to say, as both in extent and altitude it is considerably smaller than the hills of Saghru on the west and south. It was with no little pleasure that we entered the valley, barren though it was in most parts, for any relief was acceptable after the interminable arid desert we had been crossing for the last six or seven days of our journey. Two villages lie near the northern end, Igli and Maroksha, both inhabited by the Berber tribe of Aït Khalifa, representatives of whom we had not as yet come across. Igli is a most picturesque spot, crowning a knoll in the very centre of the valley, the summit surmounted by a huge tower. With this exception the village is not fortified, though its position above the level of the surrounding land renders it easy of defence. Maroksha lies on the level ground, half-hidden amongst groves of palms, irrigated from the stream of the Wad Todghrá. From Ferkla this river flows slightly to the north of east, the road being some miles on its south side, until almost due north of Igli the stream takes a directly southerly course to enter the valley between Saghru and Jibel el Kebir, half a mile perhaps to the east of the village.

A mile to the south of Igli we crossed the dry bed of a tributary of the Todghrá, flowing from Jibel Saghru, and, fording the main stream a few hundred yards farther on, entered the groves of Milaab, which are protected on the west by a tower perched on a rocky projection. The road at the ford resumes its former easterly direction, the river flowing a little more to the south. Although Milaab is but a small place, I think I saw nowhere else such attention paid to the cultivation of the soil and the date-palm. The road for the mile and a half that it threaded the groves was delightful. On either side of the straight level track ran little canals of fresh clear water, beyond which stretched away a forest of feathery palm-trees. The whole scene resembled more a botanical garden than a desert oasis, so evenly were the trees planted and so well tilled the soil, which, green with _fsa_—lucerne—resembled a level lawn. The exact distance between each palm seems to have been carefully measured, so that, look which way one would, one’s sight wandered down long avenues of the straight stems and luxuriant leaves.

However, pleasant as was the half hour or so of cool and shade, it was soon over, and once more we issued into the barren glare of the stone-strewn valley, not without many regrets for the fertile tract we were leaving behind us, and much admiration for the people who had raised so luxuriant a grove in so dreary a spot. The inhabitants of Milaab belong to the Berber tribe of Aït Iazzer.

The valley of the Todghrá here takes an almost circular form, being shut in on all sides by dreary black peaks, torn and scarped apparently by volcanic action. Away a mile or two to the south-east was visible the narrow gorge by which the river issues to the valley of the Gheris. The road does not follow the course of the Todghrá, but, maintaining its easterly direction, crosses by a weary track over the brow of a range of black hills, descending again into the wide open valley beyond near the immense fortified _ksar_ of Ul Turug, the principal stronghold of the Aït Atta tribe of Berbers.

It had been a shorter march than usual, and though nearly some thirty miles had been accomplished, we were able to rest under the shade of some trees near a small stream before entering the _ksar_, which we did not desire to do until dusk, so as to run less risk of discovery; for we knew well that so near had we now come to Tafilet that the place was likely to contain a large number of Arab tribesmen from the Sultan’s camp, to some of whom I might be known.

We feasted that afternoon, for we had dates in plenty, and our Berber who accompanied us fetched us a few grains of green tea and a little sugar from the _ksar_, with a kettle to brew it in and a tiny glass to drink it out of, and we made merry in the shade of the tree, enjoying our rest and the pleasant coolness

that precedes the bitter cold of the winter nights in the Sahara. Our journey was nearly accomplished now: this one night in Ul Turug, a long march on the morrow, and we would sleep on the soil of Tafilet, if not actually in the Sultan’s camp—and all our weary adventures would be over.

But there was yet another reason that made me desire to push on, and rejoice that the termination of our journey was so near. The bitter cold at night, want of food and clothing at all times, the scorching rays of the sun by day, and the long marches made barefoot over the hot sand, had sorely taxed my strength, and I already felt in my throat the sure signs of a coming illness, with which I had a couple of years previously lain long prostrate. Already, to swallow had become an exertion attended with pain, and I knew well what to expect. Yet I could not allow my spirits to sink, ill and weary though I felt, for there was so little now between me and success, and retreat was out of the question. So I laughed and talked as gaily as I could with my men, sipping the weak solution of hot green tea by turns, and promising ourselves no end of luxuries when once the great camp of the Sultan should be reached, and a day and a half of travelling at the most lay between us and it.

Between the spot which we had fixed upon to rest at for a while and the large _ksar_ was the cemetery, a flat piece of ground covered with the low mounds which the Berbers raise over their graves, with here and there a high-domed building, or _kubba_, marking the last resting-place of some Shereef,—for Ul Turug is a _zauia_, or sanctuary, and many of its inhabitants Shereefs. The _ksar_ itself is situated partly on the steep slopes of Jibel el Kebir and partly on the plain, where the palm-groves commence, the whole settlement being surrounded by a wall of considerable defensive powers. Every 50 or 60 feet along the wall is a large tower, of the same height as the wall itself, but projecting slightly from it. One gate alone gives entrance to the _ksar_, situated under a heavy buttress in the centre of the east side of the stronghold. Seen from where we stayed for an hour or two before entering, the place presents an appearance of great solidity and strength, which is by no means belied by its interior.

Shortly before sunset we passed in, being scrutinised closely by a group of guards at the gate; but a word from our Dadsi sufficed, and we entered unmolested.

The gate, like so many others in Morocco, takes a turn half-way, this form being the easiest in case of defence being necessary. From the outside, as well as from the interior, a dead wall meets the eye when looking in or out as the case may be. Within we entered a large square, surrounded on two sides by buildings, while the two others were faced with the outside wall, along which a covered arcade had been built where animals and goods, as well as human beings, could find shelter from rain—whenever that rare event happens—or sun. From this square streets lead between the houses to the different parts of the _ksar_. Many of the dwellings are extremely well and solidly built, one and all of _tabia_, but with arched windows of wood, and doors of the same material,—not the rough planks we had seen at Dads, but showing considerable signs of skilful carpentry. We found provisions obtainable, even eggs, a fowl, and some bread, and in every respect Ul Turug resembles more a little town than a desert _ksar_. We took up our position under the high wall of a house, and, tying our donkeys to a couple of tent-pegs, lit a small fire of wood we had collected outside and supped.

Quite a number of people were passing the night at Ul Turug. Not only were groups of Berbers to be seen hurrying to and fro, but Arab soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, many of them with their horses, and Jews and negroes, all either coming from or going to Tafilet, a sudden impetus having been given to trade by the presence of the Sultan and the vast multitude that follows him in his marches. Camels and mules laden with grain from Marakesh there were too, all horribly lean and sore-backed after the long march over the Atlas and the desert. In the crowd our little band escaped observation altogether, and very few took any notice of us: one or two Berbers, more friendly than the rest, shared our little blaze of sticks, bringing us in return thin strips of flabby native bread, which when toasted became quite crisp and good.

A few words must be said as to the powerful Berber tribe of Aït Atta, a stronghold of which Ul Turug is. Probably no division of the Shloh people south of the Atlas is so well known as this tribe, and deservedly so, for by their bravery and warfare, by their constant extension of territory, and the fear in which their name is held, they have become a byword for all that is fierce or strong.

Professing an Arab origin—for they claim descent from the famous tribe of the Koreish, that gave to the world the Prophet Mohammed—they have lapsed by time into essentially a Berber people, speaking the Shelha tongue, and adopting the Berber manners and customs, and to a great extent dress and appearance. Almost the sole reminder of their Arab origin to-day is the fact that they are great horsemen, and still greater robbers and plunderers. As a rule, the Berbers seem to be constantly at war without the idea of plunder, their feuds being far more often matters of revenge. With the Aït Atta, however, this is different, and they seem to retain from the time of their Eastern ancestors the love of going afield for conquest and booty, with the result that there is little land of the eastern portion of trans-Atlas Morocco which has not at one time or another been overrun, or at least attacked, by their hordes. Not only to-day do they hold sway over the immense wastes of Jibel Saghru, but even a large portion of the Wad Draa has fallen into their hands, the natives, Haratin, paying to their conquerors an annual tribute, in return for which they are protected against attack from other quarters. On the banks of the Wad Ziz, the principal river of Tafilet, they hold the districts of Ertib (Reteb) and Medaghra, and it is members of their tribe who plough the banks of the Dayet ed Daura, far to the south of Tafilet, the great marsh formed by the rivers Ziz and Gheris. To the north their influence extends as far as the southern slopes of Jibel Ayashi, near where the caravan road from Fez to Tafilet passes, and to the east they hold much territory in the desert.

In appearance they differ much from the Berbers of Dads, for instance, being, as a rule, men of short build, thin and very wiry, with sunburnt complexions, and lacking the handsome features and bearing of many of the other Berber tribes. Although, like the other Berbers, they shave their moustaches off, and leave only the pointed beard on the extremity of the chin, they resemble far more the Saharan Arab tribes than the kinsmen with whom they claim relationship. Their costume much resembles that of Dads, though generally far dirtier, and modified to suit horsemen. In addition to the _chamira_ and _haidus_, they often wear the _haik_, the toga-like garment found through-out Morocco. Curiously enough, while the dress of the men has no particular points different from the other tribes, that of the women is unique in this portion of the desert, for they cover their shoulders with a shawl of red, black, and white stripes, closely woven of native wool and imported cotton. These shawls are longer than they are wide, and are held in their place by two short strings near the centre of one of the longer sides, the shorter ends being fringed in the same colours as the material is made of. With this exception, the rule is to find the rest of the costume of _khent_. The hair, too, is quite differently worn to the usual mode in vogue in these regions, being parted in the middle and drawn back under the ear in heavy plaits, held in position by a head-dress of _khent_. A few I noticed wearing silver ornaments on the front of their dark-blue head-dresses. The women offer none of the attractive features of those of Dads, being heavily built and clumsy, dirty and slovenly.

I had more than once been interested upon the road at watching the various games practised by the boys of the different oases. At Dads _kora_, or football, was the general favourite, apparently identical with the game so common amongst the _tolba_, or “scholars,” of Morocco. At Ferkla it had been a kind of hockey, one boy armed with a stick endeavouring to keep out of a hole in the ground a hard small ball which some half-dozen others were trying to hit in. For clubs they used the centre stem of the palm leaf, from which the fronds had been cut. Held by the thin end with the knob at the bottom, they formed an excellent weapon. Here, however, at Ul Turug we saw neither _kora_ nor hockey, the whole youth of the place having taken to stilts, on which some were very skilful in getting about. The stilts resembled exactly the kind in use amongst boys in England, and one could not help feeling a sort of brotherly love with these desert urchins when one found them playing games identical with our own.

However, the tranquil state of affairs in Great Britain has not yet necessitated one practice, common amongst the youths of the Aït Atta tribe, which we saw going on outside the _ksar_. This consisted in practising escape from an enemy by holding on to the tail of a galloping horse, the rider urging his steed meanwhile to its full pace. It is marvellous what speed can be made in this manner, and it was a sight well worth seeing to watch an old ruffian of the tribe galloping about on his handsome desert horse, with a youth holding on to each stirrup, and another to the tail, and scudding over the ground beside and behind him respectively. This means of retreat is in common practice amongst the tribe of Aït Atta, and soon puts their foot-soldiers, no match against many of the Berber tribes in running, out of distance of their pursuers.

We spent the night of November 15 at Ul Turug, and though I found the elevation of the place to be only some 2850 feet above the sea-level, we experienced a sharp frost, and suffered not a little from the cold. In the grey dawn we rose, and, packing our little donkeys with their light burdens, left the _ksar_ as soon as the gates were opened; nor was I sorry to get safely out of a spot that has the reputation of being one of the most fanatical in this portion of the Sahara.