Alan Lennox, had
done so much to make the stay in Marrakesh happily memorable.
It was just half-past six when the last pack-mule passed the gate, whose
keeper said graciously, "Allah prosper the journey," and, though the sun
was up, the morning was cool, with a delightfully fresh breeze from the
west, where the Atlas Mountains stretched beyond range of sight in all
their unexplored grandeur. They seemed very close to us in that clear
atmosphere, but their foot hills lay a day's ride away, and the natives
would be prompt to resent the visit of a stranger who did not come to them
with the authority of a kaid or governor whose power and will to punish
promptly were indisputable. With no little regret I turned, when we had
been half an hour on the road, for a last look at Ibn Tachfin's city.
Distance had already given it the indefinite attraction that comes when
the traveller sees some city of old time in a light that suggests every
charm and defines none. I realised that I had never entered an Eastern
city with greater pleasure, or left one with more sincere regret, and that
if time and circumstance had been my servants I would not have been so
soon upon the road.
Pages:
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206