men could be seen drawing the slow and patient lines of the plough. Farther on flocks of sheep were browsing, and over against the mountainside a big village with a mossque, a minaret and a green-roofed kubba nestled in distant tranquillity.
"That is the town of Mulay Brahim to which crowds of the pious make pilgrimages every year to visit the kubba of this wali," explained Captain Deverre. "It is the most frequented place for the tribes of all the Atlas, so much so that a hadj from anywhere in these regions is supposed to visit this shrine several times before starting on the road to Mecca."
As we pointed downward and twisted like an eel in among the mountain rocks and along the breakneck road that at times overhung sheer drops of hundreds of feet we met or passed many of these pilgrims of the Faith coming from or going toward the sacred town. At times they would break their Indian file and stop near some tree to offer sacrifice to the spirit inhabiting it. Rags, bits of yarn or gaudy-colored strips of cloth were the offerings which again carried me back to the open country in Asia, where I had myself placed such tribute on hundreds of trees—shreds from the lining of my jacket or hair from the mane of my Bielak, the faithful companion who carried me from Amyl to Narabanchi Kuré. I used to make such offerings, not because I believed in the demons of the holy trees but in order to avoid stirring up the devil that was more certainly resident in the heart of my Mongol guide.
When we had dropped down to the bottom of the narrow valley and were running between olive-groves, green
