to visit the tomb of their ancient masters before the feast of Bairam. In the Atlas there still exist families related to the sherifs of the Saadite dynasty, the youths from which continue to come to these sacred shrines of their ancestors and to fortify here their spirits.
As we entered the pantheon, shrouded deep in the veil of sadness and neglect, involuntarily I spoke aloud my thoughts to my Arab friend:
"One feels like offering prayers for the dead."
"God is One!" he whispered, as he bent his head.
Later, as we parted outside the entrance gate, once more Abu Abd es-Selam dropped his head and half spoke, half murmured, as though in apology for his show of feeling:
"The ashes of my forefathers rest here."
Throughout the whole day I was so dominated by the, depressing feeling left by this strange place that I failed to take my usual pleasure from the dinner in the cool and attractive garden of the rich Arabian merchant from Fez, Si Mahommed ben Chokrun, to which we had been invited through Monsieur Delarue. And yet this dinner was splendid, served, as it was, in the shadow of fruittrees in the garden, where the grass was covered with beautiful rugs and the many-cushioned divans which had been arranged for us. First, low tables with copper basins were set before us, and black slaves, silent and attentive, poured us water to wash our hands. Then we took our places on the comfortable, soft cushions, though again, strange as it seemed to us not of the Moslem world, not by the side of the host, who remained apart and, with eyes alert for everything, directed a whole company of
