One girl, aged fourteen, has been sold for no less than ninety dollars
after spirited bidding from two country kaids; another, two years older,
has gone for seventy-six.
"There is no moderation in all this," says the Atlas Moor, angrily. "But
prices will rise until our Lord the Sultan ceases to listen to the
Nazarenes, and purges the land. Because of their Bashadors we can no
longer have the markets at the towns on the coasts. If we do have one
there, it must be held secretly, and a slave must be carried in the
darkness from house to house. This is shameful for an unconquered people."
I am only faintly conscious of my companion's talk and action, as he bids
for child after child, never going beyond forty dollars. Interest centres
in the diminishing crowd of slaves who still follow the dilals round the
market in monotonous procession.
The attractive women and strong men have been sold, and have realised
good prices. The old people are in little or no demand; but the
auctioneers will persist until closing time. Up and down tramp the people
nobody wants, burdens to themselves and their owners, the useless, or
nearly useless men and women whose lives have been slavery for so long as
they can remember.
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