The province we were about to enter was a kind of colony divided into farms among a large number of soldiers’ families, in each of which military service is obligatory for all the sons; thus, every boy is born a soldier, serves, as he can, from his very infancy, and receives a fixed pay before he is able to handle a musket. These military families are also exempt from taxes, and their property is inalienable as long as male descendants exist. They thus constitute a regular militia, disciplined and faithful, by means of which the government can devour, according to the popular expression, any rebellious province, without fear that the tool will fly off the handle. They may be called a militia of collectors of revenue, paying the government more than they cost, for in Morocco the army is a servant of the finances, and the principal tool of the administrative machine is the sword.

We had scarcely passed the boundaries of Beni-Hassan when we saw in the distance a troop of horsemen galloping toward us, preceded by a great banner. Contrary to custom, they were spread out in two long lines, one behind the other, with their officers in front.

At about twenty paces off they stopped abruptly. Their commandant, a big old man with a white beard, a benevolent aspect, and a lofty turban, came forward and took the Ambassadors hand, saying, “You are welcome! you are welcome!” And then to us, “Welcome! welcome! welcome!”

We resumed our march. The new horsemen, were very different from the Beni-Hassan. They had clean garments and shining arms; almost all wore yellow boots embroidered with red; their sabres had handles of rhinoceros hide, their mantles were blue, their caftans white, with green girdles. Many of them were old—those petrified old men for whom eternity seems to have begun; some were very young—two in particular not more than ten years old, handsome and full of life, looking at us with a smiling air, as though they were thinking, “Come, you are not such scarecrows as we had expected to see.” There was one black old man of such tall stature that if he had taken his feet out of the stirrups they would have touched the ground. One of the officers wore stockings.

In about half an hour we met another company with a red banner, commanded by an old caid, who joined themselves to the first; and from time to time other groups of four, eight, fifteen horsemen, each with its banner, who came to swell our escort. When all had arrived, the usual firing and charging went on.

It was evident that they were regular soldiers; they manoeuvred with more regularity and order than any we had seen. They had a new play. One would dart forward at full speed, another behind him, ventre À terre. Suddenly the first would rise in his stirrups, turn and fire right into the chest of his pursuer, who at the same instant discharged his musket into the first one’s side; so that had they been firing with ball both would have fallen dead at the same moment. The horse of one who was flying in full career fell, and threw his rider to such a distance that we thought he must be killed. But in a moment he was up and in the saddle, and rushing about with more fury than ever. Each one had his cry. “Take care!—take care! Bear witness all! It is I! Here comes death! Place for the barber!” (he was the soldiers’ barber). And one shouted, to the manifest amusement of his companions, “Alla mia depinta!” The interpreters explained that he meant, “To my lady, who is as beautiful as a picture,” odd enough for one of a people who have portraiture in horror, and who cannot even have a clear idea of it. The two little lads fired and shouted together, “Place for the brothers!” pointing their muskets downward, and bending to the saddle-bow.

In this manner we arrived near the cuba of Sidi-Hassem, where our camp was to be pitched.

Poor Hamed Ben-Kasen Buhammei! Until now I have but glanced at him; but remembering how I saw him that morning, he, general of the armies of the Scherif, helping to plant the supports of the Ambassador’s tent, I feel the need of expressing my admiration and gratitude toward him. What a good fellow of a general! From the moment of our departure he had not bastinadoed soldier or servant; had never shown ill temper; always the first to rise, and the last to go to bed; never had allowed to transpire, even to the most prying eye, that his stipend of forty francs a month might seem a trifle scanty; had not a particle of self-conceit; helped us to mount, saw that our saddles were secure, gave a passing blow with his stick to our restive mules; was always ready for every thing and everybody; rested, crouched like a humble mule-driver near our tents; smiled when we smiled; offered us cÙscÙssÙ; sprang to his feet at a sign from the Ambassador, like a puppet on wires; prayed, like a good Mussulman, five times a day; counted the eggs of the muna, presided at the killing of sheep, looked over the artists’ sketch-books without blenching; was, in short, the man of all others whom his Imperial Majesty should have chosen for that mission among all the crew of barefooted generals. Hamed Ben-Kasen often related with pride that his father had been a general in the war with Spain, and sometimes spoke of his sons who were with their mother at Mechinez, his native city. “It is three months,” he would say, with a sigh, “since I have seen them.”

That day, after having witnessed the presentation of the muna, when there was a monstrous dish of cÙscÙssÙ that took five men to carry it, we took refuge, as usual, in our tents, to endure, also as usual, the forty degrees centigrade which lasted from noon until four o’clock, during which time the camp was immersed in profound silence. At four life woke again. The artists took their brushes, the doctor received the sick, one went to bathe, another to fire at a mark, another to hunt, another to walk, another to visit a friend in his tent, to see the escort charge, to visit the cook in his struggle with Africa, to go to the nearest duar, and thus, every one at dinner-time had something to tell, and conversation burst forth like a firework.

At sunset I went with the commandant to see the escort at their usual exercises, in a vast field near the camp. There we found about a hundred Arabs sitting in a row along the edge of a ditch looking on. As soon as they discovered us they rose and came in groups to follow us. We pretended not to see them. For a few minutes not one of them spoke; then one said something that set the others laughing. Then another, and a third spoke, and everybody laughed as before. They were evidently laughing at us, and we were not long in discovering that their laughter corresponded with our movements and the inflections of our voices. It was the most natural thing in the world; to them we were ridiculous. We were curious to know what they were saying, and as one of the interpreters was passing, made a secret sign for him to come and translate, which he did.

Presently one made an observation which was received with a burst of laughter. “He says,” said Morteo, “that he does not know what the skirts of your coats are for, unless to hide your tails.” Again, “He says that the parting up the back of your head is the road where certain insects make the lab-el-baroda.” A third speech, and a third shout of laughter. “He says that these Christians are strange creatures; that in their ambition to seem tall they put vases on their heads and two props under their heels.”

At this point a dog from the camp came and lay down at our feet. There was a remark and a loud yell of laughter. “This is rather too much!” said Morteo; “he says that a dog has come to lie down with the other dogs. I will teach them——” As he spoke, he turned abruptly to the Arabs and said something in a tone of menace. It was like a flash of lightning. In one instant they had all vanished.

Poor fellows, let us be just! they were not so far wrong after all! Ten times a day, while they skirmished about us on their superb horses, we remarked to each other: “Yes, we are civilized, we are the representatives of a great nation, we have more science in our heads, we ten men, than exists in the whole empire of the Scherifs; but planted on our mules, dressed in these clothes, with these hats, in these colors, among them, goodness knows, we are hideous!” And it was true. The least among those ragged figures on horseback was more noble, more dignified, handsomer, more worthy of a lady’s glance, than all the dandies of Europe in a bunch.

At table that evening there was another curious little scene. The two oldest of the caids of the escort came in and sat down, one on each side of the Ambassador. He asked them whether they had ever heard of Italy. Both together, eagerly making the sign of “no” with the hand, replied, in the tone of those who wish to dissipate a suspicion, “Never! never!” The Ambassador, with the patience of a master, gave them some geographical and political information respecting our mysterious country. They listened with wide-open eyes and gaping mouths, like children.

“And how many people live in your country?” one asked.

“Twenty-five millions,” answered the Ambassador.

They gave a sign of astonishment. “And Morocco,” asked the other, “how many millions has it?”

“Four,” replied the Ambassador, feeling his ground.

“Only four!” they exclaimed ingenuously, looking at each other. Evidently these two brave generals knew no more about Morocco than they did about Italy; and perhaps as little about their own province in Morocco.

Signor Morteo showed them a photograph of his wife, saying, “Allow me to present my wife.”

They looked and looked at it with much complacency, and then asked in one voice, “And the others?” Either they did not know, or had forgotten, that we unhappy Christians are limited to one.

That night there was no possibility of sleep. The hens clucked, the dogs barked, the sheep bleated, the horses neighed, the sentinels sang, the water-sellers tinkled their bells, the soldiers quarrelled over the muna, the servants tumbled over the tent cords; the camp was like a market-place. But we had only four more days to travel, and—a magic word of consolation—Fez!