I have been
struck by the dignity, the patience, and the endurance of the Moor, by
whom I mean here the Arab who lives in Morocco, and not the aboriginal
Berber, or the man with black blood preponderating in his veins. To the
Moor all is for the best. He knows that Allah has bound the fate of each
man about his neck, so he moves fearlessly and with dignity to his
appointed end, conscious that his God has allotted the palace or the
prison for his portion, and that fellow-men can no more than fulfil the
divine decree. Here lies the secret of the bravery that, when disciplined,
may yet shake the foundations of Western civilisation. How many men pass
me on the road bound on missions of life or death, yet serene and placid
as the mediaeval saints who stand in their niches in some cathedral at
home. Let me recall a few fellow-wayfarers and pass along the roadless way
in their company once again.
[Illustration: A TRAVELLER ON THE PLAINS]
First and foremost stands out a khalifa, lieutenant of a great country
kaid, met midmost Dukala, in a place of level barley fields new cut with
the _media luna_. Brilliant poppies and irises stained the meadows on all
sides, and orchards whose cactus hedges, planted for defence, were now
aflame with blood-red flowers, became a girdle of beauty as well as
strength.
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