The forest was left behind, the land grew bare, and from a hill-top I saw
the Atlantic some five or six miles away, a desert of sand stretching
between. We were soon on these sands--light, shifting, and intensely
hot--a Sahara in miniature save for the presence of the fragrant broom in
brief patches here and there. It was difficult riding, and reduced the
pace of the pack-mules to something under three miles an hour. As we
ploughed across the sand I saw Suera itself, the Picture City of Sidi
M'godol, a saint of more than ordinary repute, who gave the city the name
by which it is known to Europe. Suera or Mogador is built on a little
tongue of land, and threatens sea and sandhills with imposing
fortifications that are quite worthless from a soldier's point of view.
Though the sight of a town brought regretful recollection that the time of
journeying was over, Mogador, it must be confessed, did much to atone for
the inevitable. It looked like a mirage city that the sand and sun had
combined to call into brief existence--Moorish from end to end, dazzling
white in the strong sun of early summer, and offering some suggestion of
social life in the flags that were fluttering from the roof-tops of
Consuls' houses.
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