I follow the business leaders through a very labyrinth of narrow, unpaved
streets, roofed here and there with frayed and tattered palmetto-leaves
that offer some protection, albeit a scanty one, against the blazing sun.
At one of the corners where the beggars congregate and call for alms in
the name of Mulai Abd el Kader Ijjilalli, I catch a glimpse of the great
Kutubia tower, with pigeons circling round its glittering dome, and then
the maze of streets, shutting out the view, claims me again. The path is
by way of shops containing every sort of merchandise known to Moors, and
of stalls of fruit and vegetables, grateful "as water-grass to herds in
the June days." Past a turning in the crowded thoroughfare, where many
Southern tribesmen are assembled, and heavily-laden camels compel
pedestrians to go warily, the gate of the slave market looms portentous.
A crowd of penniless idlers, to whom admittance is denied, clamours
outside the heavy door, while the city urchins fight for the privilege of
holding the mules of wealthy Moors, who are arriving in large numbers in
response to the report that the household of a great wazeer, recently
disgraced, will be offered for sale.
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