CHAPTER X.

FROM ZEGUTA TO SAGAT.

Whilst I was running here and there in search of my mule—which, I do not know how or why, was at last found among the baggage—the members of the embassy departed. I still had time to come up with them, but in leaving the camp and going down a rocky path, my mule stumbled, the saddle slipped, and literature, as represented in my person, was precipitated to the ground. It took half an hour to set matters straight again, and meantime, adieu to the embassy! I had to make the journey alone, followed afar off by a limping servitor, who could hardly arrive in time, in case of an assault, to see me breathe my last breath. May the will of Allah be done! The country is deserted, and the sky cloudy. From time to time I can see, on the summit of distant heights, a gay cavalcade, among which I recognize the Ambassador’s white horse, and Selim’s red caftan; and then I do not feel so much alone; but the cavalcade vanishes, and solitude once more oppresses my heart. In an hour’s time I rejoin the rear-guard of twelve horsemen, led by old Abu-Ben-Gileli, the caid, who gives me a terrible glance that I feel all down my spine. I smile with humility and pass on. Coming out of the lovely valley on which our encampment looked, I enter another spacious valley, flanked by steep hills clothed with aloe and olive, forming two great green walls to the right and left of a broad straight road, closed at the end by a curtain of blue mountains. I meet a few Arabs, who stop and look amazed at seeing me without an escort. Will they attack me, or no? One goes to a tree, and hastily tearing off a branch, runs toward me with it. It has come! I stop my mule and grasp my pistol. He laughs, and hands me the branch, explaining that it is to beat my lazy mule with. At that moment two soldiers of the escort come galloping to meet me; my hour is not yet come. The two soldiers place themselves one on either side, and drive forward my quadruped with blows from the butts of their muskets, saying: _Embasceador! Embasceador!_ The Ambassador has sent them back to see what has become of me. They deserve a reward. I stop and offer them a small bottle of wine which I take from my pocket. They say neither yes nor no, but look smiling at each other, and then sign to me that they have never drunk wine. “Try it,” I say with a gesture. One takes the bottle, pours a few drops in the palm of his hand, licks it up, and remains thoughtful for a moment. The other does the same. Then they laugh, look at each other, and make signs that it is good. “Drink, then.” One empties half the bottle at a gulp; the other finishes it; then they each place a hand on their stomach, and turn up their eyes to heaven. We resume our road. We meet Arabs, men, women, and children, who all look at me with surprise. One of them says something, which is answered by the soldiers with an emphatic negative. He said, “Here is a Christian who has been robbing the Ambassador.”

We saw some white villages on the top of the rising ground that bordered the valley; _cube_, palms, fruit-trees, flowering oleanders, and rose gardens were visible; the country was brilliantly green, and began to show here and there traces of division into farms. At last we entered a narrow, rocky gorge, and issuing thence found ourselves at the camp. We are upon the banks of the Miches, an affluent of the Sebù, near a little bridge built of masonry, and in a semicircle of rocky hills. The gray sky, like a leaden roof, sends down a pale dull light; the thermometer marks forty degrees centigrade; we are constrained to remain seven hours motionless in our tents. The air is heavy and burning. No sound is heard but the grasshopper’s chirp and Ducali’s guitar. A profound ennui broods over the entire encampment. But toward evening there is a change. A light shower refreshes the air; a shaft of rays, darting like a stream of electric light through the opening of the gorge, gilds one half the camp; couriers arrive from Tangiers and Fez, and Arabs from the villages. Two thirds of the caravan are in the river; and the dinner is enlivened by the apparition of a new personage, come from the great city of the Scherifs; the Moor Schellah, another of the protégés of the Legation who has a suit pending with the Sultan’s government; the most voluminous turban, the most rotund visage, the most comfortable and unctuous of fat Moors that we have seen between this and Tangiers. The next morning at dawn we resumed our march without other escort than the forty soldiers commanded by Hamed Ben-Kasen. A revolt had broken out in the confines of Algiers, and all the cavalry in Fez had been sent against the rebels. “We shall see many heads hanging over the gates of Fez,” said Ducali. After two hours’ journey among the broom-clad hills, we came out upon the vast table-land of Fez, encircled by mountains and hills, golden with grain, sprinkled with large _duar_, watered by the river of the Azure Fountain, which empties into the Miches, and by the Pearl river, affluent of the Sebù, which divides into two parts the sacred city of the empire. Flocks of cranes, wild geese, doves, pheasants, and heron, flew over it, and the luxuriant vegetation, full of smiling peace and light, made it like one vast garden. We encamped on the bank of the Azure Fountain river. The day flew by with lightning speed, what with visiting, hunting, the _duar_, Jews coming from Fez to relate the great preparations that were being made, and messengers from the court bringing the Sultan’s salutations. Arabs came, fording the river in families, first the camel, then the men, then the women with their children on their backs, then the boys and girls, then the dogs swimming. Caravans passed, crowds of curious lookers-on appeared; the sunset was exquisite, and the night more luminous than our eyes had ever beheld. In the morning at daybreak we were again on the march. We re-entered the hilly region, turned to descend into the plain, and threaded a winding road between two banks that hid the horizon.

A sonorous voice cried out “Behold Fez!” Everybody stopped. Straight before us, at a few miles’ distance, at the foot of the mountains, lay a forest of towers, minarets, and palms, veiled by a light mist. A joyful shout of “Here we are!” broke from every lip, in Italian, in Spanish, in French, Arabic, Genoese, Sicilian, and Neapolitan; and to the first brief silence of astonishment succeeded a buzz of conversation. We encamped for the last time at the foot of Mount Tagat on the shore of the Pearl river, at about one hour and a half from Fez.

Here throughout the day there was a coming and going and a bustle that made it seem like the general head-quarters of an army in time of war. Messengers from the Sultan, from the prime minister, from the grand chamberlain, from the governor, officers, major-domos, merchants, relatives of the Moors of the caravan, all well-dressed people, neat, ceremonious, surrounded by the air of a court and a metropolis, speaking with grave voices and dignified gesture, and telling of the formidable army, the immense crowd, the delicious palace that awaited us. Our entrance into Fez was fixed for eight o’clock the next morning. At daydawn we were all afoot. There was great use of razors, brushes, combs, and curry-combs, and an excitement of spirits that made up for all the tedium of the journey. The Ambassador put on his gilded cap; Hamed Ben-Kasen his dress sabre, Selim his red caftan, Civo a green handkerchief on his head, a sign of high solemnity; the servants came out in white mantles; the soldiers’ arms shone in the sun; the Italians put on the best they had in their trunks. We were about a hundred in all, and it may be affirmed that Italy never had an embassy more oddly composed, more gorgeous in color, more joyously impatient, or more eagerly expected than this one. The weather is splendid, the horses prance, robes float out in the morning breeze, every face is animated, every eye is fixed upon the Ambassador, who counts the minutes on his watch. It is eight o’clock—a sign—every one is in the saddle—and we advance with hearts beating high in expectation.