The _marabout_ is married in exactly the same way as any other Arab, and if he is sufficiently wealthy he keeps a well-stocked harem. Cases occur when the sons of _marabouts_ do not take on their father’s title but live like ordinary citizens. There are also a few descendants of the Prophet who have never been _marabouts_ because they say that their ancestors were never inspired by Heaven; but, generally speaking, the position of a holy saint is too tempting to let slip by. I have a great friend who is a _marabout_. His name is Hadj Mohktar, and he lives at Chellala, on the rolling plain above the Sahara. He is a dignified old gentleman, about sixty years old; though like most Arabs he does not know his age. His eyes, which are piercingly black, twinkle merrily when he is amused; he has a good sense of humor and a brain far superior to that of most of his caste. He has been twice to Mecca, but this does not stop him from drinking a glass of wine when it is offered to him. He is rich and has some of the finest flocks in North Africa. One night, hearing that I was at the hotel, he came up to see me after dinner. I offered him some champagne, which he drank with evident pleasure. After a little preliminary talk about the prospects of sheep-breeding that year, he asked me if I would care to take a walk with him in the village. I accepted, expecting to be taken to a gathering of learned _muftis_, but to my surprise we wended our way to the reserved quarters of the native dancing-girls. Our entry into the house we sought caused, to say the least of it, a sensation. The girls precipitated themselves towards the old man and kissed his shoulder and his turban. Cushions were brought, carpets and rugs, and a throne was made for him. I was accommodated with a stool at his feet. A tray was brought with honey cakes and milk, but the _marabout_ waved it all away. “Bring me beer,” he commanded. Beer was brought and we solemnly clinked glasses. Dancing-girls from the neighboring houses appeared and kissed his turban. A few men drifted in, but seeing who was present, discreetly disappeared. The _marabout_ turned to me solemnly and said: “In your country do you have dancing-girls as in North Africa?” I shook my head. “Neither did we before the French came. Your people have much wisdom,” he replied. “They are Christians, are they not?” “Yes,” I said, “but there are also Jews in my country, and in our dominions there are Mohammedans and Hindus and Buddhists.” The old man’s eyes fixed themselves on me. “But are there, then, other sects than Mohammedan, Christian, and Jew?” “Oh yes,” I went on, and I tried to give him a rough outline of the other faiths of the world. He listened to me in silence. “You are very young,” he said at last, “but you have the wisdom of a great _marabout_.”