I am
permitted to lie at full length on a horse rug and stare up at the dark,
star-spangled sky; Salam has dug a little hole in the ground, made a
charcoal fire, and begun to prepare soup and boil the water for coffee.
The Maalem smokes kief in furtive manner, as though orthodox enough to be
ashamed of the practice, while M'Barak prepares plates and dishes for the
evening meal. Around, in a semicircle, some ten yards away, the men and
boys of the village sit observing us solemnly. They have little to say,
but their surprise and interest are expressed quite adequately by their
keen unfailing regard. The afterglow passes and charcoal fires are lighted
at the edge of most of the native huts, in preparation for the evening
meal, for the young shepherds have come from the fields and the flocks are
safely penned. In the gathering dusk the native women, passing through the
smoke or by the flame of their fire, present a most weird picture, as it
might be they were participating in a Witches' Sabbath. Darkness envelops
all the surrounding country, hiding the road by which we came, sealing up
the track we have to follow, striking a note of loneliness that is awesome
without being unpleasant.
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