The sight was really most picturesque. Through the black tunnel of the gate, already drowned in a thick, purple darkness, we could see Keshla perched on the top of the great citadel-rock, with its walls and towers seemingly stuck to the face of the cliff. The castle, bathed in a scarlet light as with tire color of blood or fire, standing out on the right, combined with tire big, white, rounded kubbas on a palm-covered hill to the left to revive for me a page in the history of the struggle between the Saadite dynasty and the Portuguese armies; for it was the cult of the kubbas that played a prominent part in the contest, stirring up the religious fanaticism that led the natives on in this conflict between two races and two ideas that culminated in one more triumph for the Law and the Prophet, this time over the severity and cruelty of Portuguese governors.
The place before us was thronged with the white figures of the natives and edged with the small booths and tents, where the manufactured products of the town were being exposed. As I glanced also at the dark-blue and brown bournouses surrounding singers and jugglers, I remarked to Le Glay:
"You have your Jemaa el-Fna here also."
As we watched the throng, Keshla put on its dark robes of night, the kubbas became gray and their guarding palms black, the first stars took their places in the sky, the crowd in the market began to scatter and finally the protracted call of the muezzin floated down from the minaret and seeped into every corner of the town. A beggar near the gate rose quickly, spread a much-worn sheepskin on the ground, tucked his feet under him and
