The sun was nearly overhead, and Kit sat in the hot dust that lay about the wady. A low bank rose behind him and shaded his head. His eyes hurt, he was tired, and his burned skin was sore, for the dust stung as if it were mixed with alkali. In the open one could hardly front the sun, but the nights were keen, and at daybreak he had got up shivering from his hard bed behind a stone.

Macallister, Simon, and three sailors from Mossamedes occupied the narrow belt of shade. Their poses were cramped and awkward, for all tried to get some shelter from the sun. They had lunched frugally on gofio, goat's-milk cheese, and a little sour wine. Gofio is roasted grain, ground and mixed with water. The gritty paste stuck to Kit's parched mouth, for he tried to control his thirst. The skin in which they had brought water from the ketch did not hold much.

The map in Wolf's office indicated an oasis not very far from the coast, and Kit imagined that where water was he would find the Berbers. Since the wady ran nearly straight inland, he resolved to use it for a guide, and for three days the party had laboured across the dust and stones. As a rule, the hollow was not deep or sharply marked. For the most part, easy slopes led to a bare tableland where the soil, swept and consolidated by the wind, looked like rock. In places, however, the hollow pierced rolling ground and sank to a stony ravine.

The country was strangely desolate, but was not the level, sandy desert Kit had thought. In fact, there was not much sand, and in spots it looked as if the soil was sometimes cultivated. The bank behind Kit's camp was sharply cut as if by an angry torrent, but since he had left the beach he had not seen water. There was not a rabbit or a partridge, although in the dry Canaries rabbits haunt the stony ravines and red-legged partridges run in the prickly pear. Nothing but a pair of buzzards, floating very high up, had crossed the sky.

Half closing his eyelids, Kit looked about. Strange reflections quivered across the stones and distant objects were magnified. In the foreground, the light was dazzling, and the hollow melted into a luminous belt of brown and yellow. A euphorbia bush with stiff, thick stalks, however, was harshly green and looked like a house, although it was but four or five feet high. The euphorbia puzzled Kit; in a country where one found no water, its stalks were tender with milky sap. He glanced at his companions. Their cotton clothes had gone yellow, their skin was brown, and he thought one could not distinguish them a short distance off. An hour since he imagined somebody had looked out from behind a stone. Although he wanted to meet the Berbers, he did not want to think they cautiously followed his track.

He mused about the barrenness of the country. At Lanzarote, sixty miles from the African coast, it sometimes did not rain for six or eight months, and then, when the concrete cisterns were nearly dry, it rained in floods. Perhaps it was like that in Morocco; sheep and camels could not live if it did not rain at all. Kit began to think about the good bishop who used all his fortune to send the people of Lanzarote water.

A sailor shouted, and Kit jumped up. A cloud of dust rolled down the wady, and in the dust, about sixty yards off, men on camels rode for the camp. Kit watched their advance with dull surprise. A few moments since he had seen nobody and a camel is a large object to hide. It looked as if the Berbers had sprung from the sand. Then he heard the humming flight of a stone and a camel swerved. A sailor laughed hoarsely and stooped to get another stone for his sling, but Kit stopped the man. He had come to meet the Berbers and they carried long guns. Had they meant to hurt him, they could have hidden behind the stones and shot the party.

For all that, when they pulled up a few yards off, his heart beat and coolness was hard. They were big, muscular fellows and the nearest looked scornfully fierce; Kit could not see the others' faces because they wore loose hoods. One or two of the Spaniards had drawn their knives, but nobody moved. The little party stood against the bank and looked at the Berbers. Then Kit braced himself and signed to the interpreter.

For a few moments Simon and one of the others talked, but the Berber's remarks were short. His pose was easy, but very still, and the long gun he balanced somehow emphasised his height. He was like a bronze and blue statue, and Kit thought his quietness forbidding. The camel moved its long neck and grunted.

"He says we must go with him," Simon remarked. "His chief is waiting. That is all."

Kit looked at Macallister, who calmly cleaned his pipe. "Aweel," he said, "ye wanted to find the Moors and ye ought to be satisfied. Yon fellow's no' for arguing. We'll just gang."

The Berber touched his camel and lifted his hand. His gesture was commanding, and when the others moved forward Kit told the Spaniards to put up their knives. The Berbers did not threaten; they pushed their camels against the bank, and the men must move or be trampled."Arrai!" said the leader, his camel grunted, and Kit's men set off, one behind the other between two rows of the clumsy animals.

The camels went fast, their necks moving backwards and forwards like engine piston-rods. At the bottom of the wady the heat was intolerable, and thick dust rolled up. Moreover, the ground was rough, but Kit pushed on as fast as possible. He did not think the Berbers would argue about the pace; it looked as if they thought his business was to keep up. He heard Macallister breathe hard and sometimes Simon coughed. The sailors went silently in their open rawhide shoes, the Berbers said nothing, and one could not hear the camels' feet. In fact, all was strangely quiet, and somehow flat.

Kit had started with high resolves, but owned he had not played a romantic part. Things had not gone as he had vaguely planned; the situation, so to speak, was not in his control. His party was driven along rather like a flock of sheep. Although he had meant to negotiate with the chief, it looked as if he was the fellow's prisoner.

The wady pierced a stony hill, and in the defile the heat got worse. Kit's skin was scorched; the dust got into his nose and throat. Sometimes he could hardly see; his eyes hurt and his head ached. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he must keep up and he laboured on.

By and by the Berbers turned and climbed the side of the defile. To climb was hard, for parched soil and loose stones rolled down the slope. The camels, however, went up, and Kit saw he must keep in front of the animals behind him. The track was narrow, and it did not look as if the Berbers would stop. He could not see Macallister. Gasping men and lurching camels moved in a yellow fog.

At the top they crossed a dazzling tableland where the soil was firm, and to feel the wind was some relief. When they went down again, a few miles farther on, Kit saw prickly pear, thorny aloes, and in one spot short, white stubble, but there were no tents. The hollow was wide and ran on straight in front, until stones and dust melted into the quivering reflections. Nothing indicated that a camp was near.

The sun sank, and the camels threw grotesque shadows across the parched soil. Kit began to lose the sense of feverish heat, and although he was worn out, walking was easier. When the sky was luminous red and green the wind got cool and the camels' pace was fast. Somehow he kept up, and at length the Berbers stopped.

Dark tents dotted the wady and sheep occupied a belt of dry stubble. In places an aloe lifted a tall shaft, tamarisk and prickly pear grew on the banks, but Kit saw no palms. A few ruined stone huts, hardly distinguishable from the background, occupied a bend of the hollow, and a broken heap that might have been a watch tower on the ridge cut the sky. Kit understood the Berbers were nomads, but it looked as if somebody had long since built a village.

No excitement marked the party's arrival. The leader shouted "Foocha!" and the camels knelt; the men got down and pushed Kit and the sailors forward. Indistinct figures appeared at the tent doors, and he smelt acrid smoke. In front of the middle tent the leader stopped and a man came out.

It was getting dark, but Kit remarked that the man was not as big as the camel drivers and his skin was lighter. His mouth and jaw were covered and his blue clothes were clean. For a moment or two he studied the group and his calm glance rather annoyed Kit. All the Berbers he had met were marked by an imperturbable calm. Then the fellow said something to a camel driver, who signed the party to go with him and took them to a hut. The front was broken and the roof had fallen, but the building gave some shelter from the keen wind. By and by another man brought them a bowl of stuff like porridge, some dried meat Kit thought was goat's flesh, and dates.

"What did the sheik say to the camel driver?" he asked Simon.

"He will talk to us in the morning; this was all. If he had meant to hurt us, he would not have sent the food. When you go, call him Wazeer. It is not his title, but he will like it."

Kit doubted if the Berber would be moved by flattery, but he said: "The food is good. This porridge stuff is better than the Canary gofio. What do they call it?"

"Cous-cous," said Simon. "From Morocco to Nigeria, all food that looks like this is cous-cous. It may be made with sour milk, palm oil, or water, and roasted grain, and some is very bad. In Africa they do not use many names."

"I'm thinking to talk much would hurt them," Macallister remarked. "A very reserved people, and yon sheik's the dourest o' the lot. For a' that, when I try him wi' Avar-r-rack——"

Kit turned impatiently to the interpreter. "We have got to negotiate with the man. Since we can't buy his friendship, I don't see my line."

"To be poor is not always a drawback," Simon replied. "Perhaps it is better he does not think us rich. In Africa, one gives a present and we have some wine left. It is not good, but when one has none——"

"But a Mohammedan is not allowed to drink wine."

Simon smiled. "I will use some caution. If the headman breaks the rules, his people must not know. Those who got no wine would be horrified. In this country one uses caution always. Frankness is dangerous."

"Do you know much about the country?"

"I know something," Simon replied. "A Levantine and a Jew may go where an Englishman cannot and a Spaniard would be killed. In Egypt I was an hotel servant, in Algiers a pedlar. I have sold wine to the Legion at the outposts, and in Senegal I was major-domo for a French commandant. A small, fat man, with a theatrical dignity, but the black soldiers loved him. When they drilled well, he gave them sugar. He did not send an orderly; the commandant went along the line with the sugar in his cap. Some French are like that. Your officers are just, but one doubts if the Africans love you much. Well, in Algiers one has adventures, but in Morocco, south of Casablanca, one is lucky if one keeps one's life. If you are not bored——"

Kit said he was not bored. To listen was some relief from his gloomy thoughts, and Simon told a romantic tale. The fellow was obviously a bold and unscrupulous vagabond, but Kit did not know when his narrative stopped. He was very tired and presently his head dropped forward and his shoulders slipped down the broken wall.

When he awoke the stars were shining and it was very cold. Two sailors lay beside him and all was quiet. Kit put his head on another stone and went to sleep again.