I sit upon the flat roof of this
house in Mogador on the Morocco coast, shaded by an awning from
the bright African sun which glints in myriad sparkles on the sea
visible beyond the house-tops. The atmosphere last night was
somewhat heavy with the languorous, indescribable, and
unforgettable smell of the East; but the morning is deliciously
wind-swept by the Atlantic breeze, and the air tastes sweet. And
it is clear, dazzlingly clear. The white square houses and the
cupolas of the mosques stand out sharp against a sky of intense,
ungradated blue. I am away from the centre of the busy sea-port
and the noise of its streets thronged with grain-laden camels and
shouting drivers and picturesque, quarrelling, squabbling,
haggling Moors and Jews and desert Arabs, and I am enveloped in
the peace of the infinite azure. Besides, yesterday afternoon,
as I rode back to Mogador, across the tongue of desert which
separates it from the Palm Tree House, and the town rose on the
horizon, a dream city of pure snow set in the clear sunset
amethyst against the still, pale lapis lazuli of the bay
--something happened.
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