The next morning we started before sunrise in a thick wet fog, which chilled us to the bone and hid us from each other. The horsemen of the escort had their cowls over their heads, and their guns slung across their shoulders. We were all wrapped in cloaks and mantles; it seemed like autumn in the Low Countries. In front of me I could discern nothing distinctly save the white turban and blue cloak of the Caid; all the others were confused shadows lost in the gray mist. We went onward in silence over the rough ground covered with dwarf palms, broom and wild plums, and fennel, in groups compact or scattered according to the crossing or forking of the road. The sun, appearing in the horizon, gilded our left side a moment, and again vanished. The mist presently grew thinner, and we could catch glimpses of the country. It was a succession of green valleys, into which we descended and came up again almost unconsciously, so gradual were the slopes. The banks were covered with the aloe and the wild olive. The olive which grows prodigiously here is left almost everywhere in its wild state, and the inhabitants use the fruit of the argan for light and food. We saw no signs of habitation, neither houses nor tents. We seemed to be travelling through a virgin country. From valley to valley, from solitude to solitude, after about three hours’ journeying we finally reached a point where the larger trees and wider paths, and a few scattered cattle here and there, gave token of an inhabited place. One after the other our mounted escort spurred their horses and galloped away over a height, others darted off in another direction, the rest arranged themselves in close order. Presently we found ourselves in front of the opening of a gorge formed by low hills, upon which stood some huts. A few ragged Arabs of both sexes looked curiously at us from behind the hedge. As we rode into the gorge the sun shone out, and, turning an abrupt angle, we found ourselves in front of a wonderful spectacle.

Three hundred horsemen, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, and scattered in a sort of grand disorder, came toward us at full speed, with their muskets held aloft, as if they were rushing to the assault. It was the escort from the province of Laracce, preceded by the governor and his officials, coming to relieve the escort of Had-el-Garbia, which was to leave us on the confines of the province of Tangiers, a point that we had now reached.

The governor of Laracce, a dignified old man with a great white beard, stopped the advance of his horsemen with a sign of his hand, saluted the envoy, and then, turning to the troop, who seemed boiling over with impatience, made a vigorous gesture as if to say, “Break loose!” Then began one of the most splendid lab-el-baroda (or powder-plays) that could be desired.

They charged in couples, by tens, one by one, in the bottom of the valley, on the hills, in front and at the sides of the caravan, forward and backward, firing and yelling without cessation. In a few minutes the valley was as full of the smoke and smell of powder as a battle-field. On every side horses pranced, arms glittered, mantles floated, and red, yellow, green, blue, and orange caftans mingled with the shine of sabres and poniards. One by one they darted by, like winged phantoms, old and young, men of colossal proportions, strange and terrible figures, erect in their stirrups, with heads thrown back, hair streaming in the wind, and muskets held aloft; and each as he discharged his piece gave a savage cry, which the interpreter translated for us:—“Have a care!” “Oh, my mother!” “In the name of God!” “I kill thee!” “Thou art dead!” “I am avenged!” Some dedicated the shot to a special purpose or person: “To my master!” “To my horse!” “To my dead!” “To my sweetheart!” They fired up and down, and behind, bending and twisting as though they had been tied to the saddle. Here and there one would lose his turban or his mantle, and he would turn in full career and pick it up with the point of his musket. Some threw their guns up in the air and caught them as they fell. Their looks and gestures were like those of men mad with drink, and risking their lives in a sort of joyful fury. Most of the horses dripped blood from their bellies, and the feet and stirrups, and extremities of the mantles of the riders, were all bloody. Some faces in that multitude impressed themselves upon my memory from the first. Among others, a young man with a Cyclopean head and an immense pair of shoulders, dressed in a rose-colored caftan, and who emitted a succession of roars like those of a wounded lion; a lad of fifteen, handsome, bareheaded, and all in white, who passed three times, crying, “My God! my God!” a long, bony old man, with a most ill-omened visage, who flew by with half-shut eyes and a satanic grin upon his face, as if he carried the plague behind him; a black, all eyes and teeth, with a monstrous scar across his forehead, who writhed furiously about in his saddle, as if to free himself from the clutch of some invisible hand.

In this fashion they accompanied the march of the caravan, ascending and descending the heights, forming groups, dissolving and re-forming, with every combination of color, till they seemed like the fluttering of a myriad of banners.

At a short distance from the end of the gorge the ambassador stopped, and we all dismounted to enjoy a little repose and refreshment under the shade of a group of olive-trees, but the escort from Laracce continued to exercise before us. The baggage-train went on toward the spot selected for the camp.

We had reached the Cuba of Sidi-Liamani.

In Morocco they give the name of Cuba (or cupola) to a small square chapel, with a low dome, in which a saint lies buried. These Cube, very frequent in the southern part of the empire, placed in general near a spring and a palm-tree, and visible by their snowy whiteness from a great distance, serve as guides to the traveller, are visited by the faithful, and are for the most part in charge of a descendant of the saint, heir to his sanctity, who inhabits a hut close by, and lives by the alms of pious pilgrims. The Cuba of Sidi-Liamani was posted upon a little eminence at a few paces distant from us. Some Arabs were seated before the door. Behind them protruded the head of a decrepit old man—the saint—who looked at us with stupid wonder.

In a few minutes our kitchen fires were lighted, and we were breakfasting; while an empty sardine box, thrown away by the cook, and picked up by the Arabs, was carried to the Cuba for examination, and made the object of a long and animated discussion. Meantime, the lab-el-baroda being over, the horsemen had dismounted, and were scattered all about the valley; some of them were resting, some pasturing their horses, while others, seated in their saddles, remained to keep watch as sentinels upon the heights.

As I walked about with the captain, I then for the first time observed the horses of Morocco. They are all small, so much so, that upon my return to Europe, after having become accustomed to them, even middle-sized horses seemed at first enormous to me. They have brilliant eyes, the forehead a little flattened, very wide nostrils, the cheek-bone very prominent, the whole head beautiful; the shin-bone and tibia slightly curved, which gives a peculiar elasticity of movement; the crupper very sloping, rendering them more able to gallop than to trot, indeed, I do not remember ever to have seen a horse trot in Morocco. Seen in repose or merely walking past, even the finest of them make no show; but put to a gallop, they are quite changed, and become superb. Although they have much less food, and are more heavily caparisoned than ours, they bear fatigue much better. Also the manner of riding is different. The stirrups are very short, and the reins very long. The rider sits with his knees almost at a right angle, and the saddle, extremely high before and behind, holds him in a way that makes it almost impossible for him to be thrown. The horsemen wear heelless boots of yellow leather. Most of them have no spurs, but use instead of them the angle of the stirrup; some wear a small iron point in the shape of a dagger, fastened to the heel by a metal band and chain. Wonderful things are told of the great love of an Arab for his horse, the animal of the Prophet’s predilection; he is said to consider him as a sacred being; that every morning at sunrise he places his hand upon his steed’s head, and murmurs Bismillah! (in the name of God), and then kisses the hand, which has been sanctified by the touch; and that he is prodigal of cares and caresses. It may be all true. But as far as I could see, the Arab’s great affection for his horse did not prevent him from lacerating his sides in a quite unnecessary way, or from leaving him in the sun when he could have put him in the shade, or from taking him a long distance to drink, with his legs hobbled, or from exposing him a dozen times a day to the danger of breaking his limbs, out of pure mischief, or, finally, from neglecting his trappings in a way that would put him in prison for six months if he belonged to a European cavalry regiment.

The heat being very great we remained some hours at our resting-place, but no one could sleep by reason of the insects. It was the first warning of the great battle that was to be waged, growing hotter every day, until the end of the journey. Hardly had we stretched ourselves upon the ground when we were assaulted, stung, and tormented on every side, as if we had chosen a bed of nettles. Caterpillars, spiders, monstrous ants, hornets, and grasshoppers, big, impudent, and determined, swarmed about us. The commandant, who had taken upon himself to raise our spirits by always exaggerating the perils of the way, now assured us that these creatures might be considered microscopic compared with the insects that we should encounter at Fez and later in the summer; and he declared that so little would be left of us upon our return to Italy that our best friends would not know us. The cook listened to these remarks with a forced smile, and became pensive. Close by there was a monstrous spider’s web, spread over some bushes like a sheet hung out to dry. The commandant exclaimed that every thing in that country was gigantic, formidable, miraculous! and insisted that the spider which had made that web must be as large as a horse. But we could not discover him. The only ones of us who slept were the Arabs, curled up in the burning sun with a procession of creeping things marching over them. The two artists tried to sketch, surrounded by a cloud of ferocious flies, which drew from Ussi a whole rich litany of Florentine oaths.

The heat becoming less, the escort from Had-el-Garbia, the American Consul, and the Vice-Governor of Tangiers, took leave of the ambassador and turned back, while we pursued our way, accompanied by the three hundred horsemen from Laracce.

Vast undulating plains, covered here with corn and there with barley, further on with yellow stubble or with grass and flowers; here a few black tents and the tomb of a saint; now and then a palm-tree; from mile to mile three or four horsemen coming to join our escort; an immense solitude, a sky of perfect purity, a burning sun: such are the notes I find in my note-book as to the march of May 5th.

The encampment was at Tleta de Reissana. We found the tents pitched as usual in a circle, in a deep and shell-shaped gorge so overgrown with tall grass and flowers that they almost impeded our steps. It seemed like a great garden. Beds and boxes in the tents were almost hidden by tall flowers of every form and color. Close to the tent of the two painters rose two enormous aloes in blossom.

The Italian Consular Agent from Laracce met us here. He was Signor G——, an old Genoese merchant, who had lived for forty years on the Atlantic coast, jealously preserving the accent of his native town; and toward evening arrived, from no one knew where, an Arab who wished to consult the doctor of the Embassy.

He was a poor old man, lame and bent; Signor Miguerez, who spoke Arabic, questioned him about his ailments, and searched in the portable medicine chest for a remedy. Not finding the right one, he sent for Mohammed Ducali, and made him write down a prescription in Arabic, by means of which the sick man was to be treated when he got back to his family and friends. It was a medicine much in use among the Arabs. Whilst Ducali wrote, the old man muttered prayers; and when it was ready, the paper was handed to him.

Instantly, before there was time to say one word, he crammed it into his mouth with both hands. The doctor called out: “No! no! spit it out! spit it out!” But it was of no use. The poor old fellow chewed the paper with the avidity of a starving creature, swallowed it, thanked the doctor, and turned to go away. They had all the pains in the world to persuade him that the virtue of the medicine did not reside in the paper, and that another prescription must be written.

The incident cannot surprise any one who knows what the science of medicine is in Morocco. It is almost exclusively exercised by quacks, necromancers, and “saints.” Some juices of herbs, blood-letting, sarsaparilla for certain diseases, the dry skin of a serpent or chameleon for intermittent fevers, a hot iron for wounds, certain verses from the Koran written upon the medicine bottles, or on bits of paper worn round the sick man’s neck; these are the principal remedies. The study of anatomy being forbidden by their religion, it is easy to imagine to what a pass surgery is reduced. Amputation is held in abhorrence. The few Arabs who are within reach of the aid of European surgeons would prefer to die in atrocious spasms rather than submit to the cut that would save their lives. It follows that though cases of injury to a limb are frequent in Morocco, especially from the explosion of fire-arms, there are very few mutilated persons; and those few are for the most part poor wretches whose hands have been cut off by the executioner with a dull knife, and the hemorrhage stopped by the application of boiling pitch. These violent remedies, however, especially the red-hot iron, sometimes obtain admirable effects; and they apply them themselves brutally, boldly, without any aid. Either by reason of small nervous sensibility, or from their souls having been hardened in a fatalistic faith, they resist the most horrible pain with tremendous force of will. They go through the operation of cupping with an earthen pot and enough fire to roast the spine; they open boils with their daggers, driving them in at the risk of cutting an artery; and they will apply fire to an open wound on their own arm, blowing away the smoke of the frizzling flesh without a groan. The maladies that are most prevalent are fevers, ophthalmia, scald-head, elephantiasis, and dropsy; but the most common of all is syphilis, handed down from generation to generation, altered and reproduced in strange and horrid forms, with which whole tribes are infected, and of which a large proportion die; and the mortality would no doubt be even greater but for their extreme sobriety in eating, to which both their poverty and the exigencies of the climate compel them. European physicians there are none excepting in the cities of the coast; in Fez itself there are none, unless some renegade quack who has fled from Algeria or the Spanish garrisons may be counted such. When the Emperor, or a Minister, or a rich Moor falls ill, he sends for a European doctor from the coast. But this is never done except in cases of extremity, and they hide their infirmities for years, so that when the physician does arrive, it is often only to see his patient die. They have great faith in the skill of European doctors; the sight of the drugs, the chemical preparations, the surgical instruments, give them an immense idea of the power of science; they promise themselves prodigies, following the first prescriptions with the docility and cheerfulness of people quite certain of a prompt cure. But if the cure is not immediate, they lose all faith, and go back to their quacks.

The evening passed without any event worth noting, beyond the discovery of a monstrous scorpion of preternatural blackness on the pillow of my bed. I was seized with a momentary terror, and carefully threw the light upon him as I approached with cautious steps; whereupon I was able to read upon his back the following reassuring inscription: “Ceasar Biseo made it—May 5th, 1875.”

At dawn in the morning we left for the city of Alkazar. The weather was dark. The gorgeous colors of the soldiers of our escort shone out with marvellous force against the gray sky and the dark green of the country. Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei planted himself upon a height above the road and looked complacently down upon the brilliant cavalcade as they filed by in close order, silent, grave, with eyes fixed upon the horizon, like the advance guard of an army on the morning of a battle. For some time we rode among olive-trees and high bushes; then we entered a vast plain all covered with flowers, violet and yellow, where the escort scattered to go through the lab-el-barode. It would be impossible to convey an idea of the strange beauty of the spectacle upon that flowery plain, under the threatening sky. I can scarcely believe that they had any rule by which they grouped themselves and dissolved again to form new combinations, but that morning I fancied it. One would have sworn that their movements were directed by a ballet-master. In the midst of a group of blue mantles there would appear, as if sent on purpose, one in a white cloak; and a company of white caftans surrounded a figure in brilliant rose-color, looking as if made by the stroke of an artist’s brush. Harmonious colors followed, met, and mingled for the space of a moment, and then dissolved to form new harmonies. The three hundred seemed multiplied into an army; they were everywhere wheeling and swooping like a flock of birds; and the two painters were driven to despair by them.

“Ah, canaglie!”—exclaimed one,—“if I only had you in my clutch at Florence!”