of freedom that is kept alive by its contact with the Gobi desert and the great stretches of northern Tibet and Eastern Turkestan.
When the caravan had passed, Hafid led us outside the city gate, turned and said:
"This is Bab el-Maroukh, about which a whole literature exists among both the Arabs and Berbers, and even the tribes of the distant Sahara and of Senegal have legends concerning it. Last year a traveler, who was here, told me that there are poems about the gate in European books. Is this true?"
When I answered Hafid that the portal had been immortalized by poets in several languages, he spoke with disappointment in his voice:
"Then you know Bab el-Maroukh, and I wanted to tell you all that one says in our city about it."
As I was anxious to hear whatever local legends might exist about this ancient portal, I urged Hafid to tell me all that he knew of it and invited him to a nearby cafe, where we should be undisturbed and I could write.
"Thank you, sir," he responded with very evident pleasure; "but, before we go, observe well the gate and remember all its details."
The port pierced a powerful square tower, constructed of brick and stone and carrying the "color of centuries," this shade which in time covers all of man's works independent of their location and of the degree of civilization of those who build them, whether it be a pagoda in an Indian jungle, a pyramid on the sands of Egypt or some bastion or drawbridge of an old castle in Europe.
