ritual and unemotional thought, bound by superstition.
Once only in Asia did I see a real, though tragic, mysticism, full of deep poetry—the solitary prayer of the blind Living Buddha before the bronze likeness of Buddha Gautama. But it was an exception.
As I watched this wandering prophet and priest, speaking so fervently and with such passion right under the walls of Ujda, where words like his could easily light the fires of insurrection, I turned with an expression of inquietude toward Colonel Pariel, who only smiled calmly and explained that it was but a prayer and a summons to return to the holy life.
Suddenly the Arab broke the flow of his impassioned plea and, tearing and disarranging his hair, shouted in a wild and thundering voice:
"Zkara! Zkara! Zkara!"
The praying, concentrated group immediately threw off its religious mantle, raised its head and began looking round, evidently searching for some one. We saw three men hurrying toward the gate. Some young natives, who had been standing near us, started after them; but the Colonel said something in his calm and even-toned voice that stopped them. Only then the speaker became aware of the presence of the consul, made the sign of the salaam in his direction and at once recommended his improvisation. Everything was silent again, and the murmur of the crowd subsided. In a moment the prophet sent his aides among the hearers to collect their alms and gifts in small baskets.
After we turned away from the preaching pilgrim and traversed the market and the suk, I watched the Arab and
