I am in the East
but of the West, and "never the twain shall meet."
[Illustration: A WATER-SELLER, MARRAKESH]
Within their sheds the slaves are huddled together. They will not face the
light until the market opens. I catch a glimpse of bright colouring now
and again, as some woman or child moves in the dim recesses of the
retreats, but there is no suggestion of the number or quality of the
penned.
Two storks sail leisurely from their nest on the saint's tomb, and a
little company of white ospreys passes over the burning market-place with
such a wild, free flight, that the contrast between the birds and the
human beings forces itself upon me. Now, however, there is no time for
such thoughts; the crowd at the entrance parts to the right and left, to
admit twelve grave men wearing white turbans and spotless djellabas. They
are the dilals, in whose hands is the conduct of the sale.
Slowly and impressively these men advance in a line almost to the centre
of the slave market, within two or three yards of the arcade, where the
wealthy buyers sit expectant. Then the head auctioneer lifts up his voice,
and prays, with downcast eyes and outspread hands.
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