Some hours after leaving El Oued we sighted across the dunes the walls of a small desert town called Guemar, the site of an important _zaouia_ of one of the numerous sects of Islam and the seat of a powerful marabout. The term “marabout,” it should be explained, is of the widest application, and takes in every man who in any way devotes himself to religion, from dignified officials of the church to the demented creatures, clad in filthy rags, who frequent the bazaars and the courtyards of the mosques, eking out an existence on the alms they solicit from the charitable. Throughout North Africa the marabouts enjoy extraordinary influence, political as well as religious, being venerated as living saints and harkened to as prophets, soothsayers, and mediators. They are generously supported by alms, are listened to with awe by the ignorant and with respect by the enlightened, and are invariably consulted in family disputes, intertribal quarrels, and other matters of consequence or inconsequence. On the death of a marabout his sanctity is transferred to his tomb (also called a marabout), which frequently becomes a place of pilgrimage for the pious. The marabouts whom one sees shuffling about the streets of North African cities are generally mere charlatans, who have adopted a life of piety as the easiest means of gaining a living; but these should not be confounded with the great marabouts, some of whom, such as the Senussi, the head of the powerful secret fraternity whose headquarters are at Jarabub in Tripolitania, are extremely able men and exercise enormous influence in the Moslem world. The French, whose whole policy in Africa is based on winning the confidence and friendship of the natives, have never made the mistake of underestimating the power of the great marabouts, but, on the contrary, treat them with marked respect and frequently bestow on them honors and decorations. When our driver learned that we contemplated passing through Guemar without stopping, he ventured to express polite but unmistakable disapproval. To do so, it seemed, would be to commit an unpardonable breach of etiquette. “All strangers passing through the town must visit the grand marabout,” he informed us. “It is the custom.” I still demurred, but the chauffeur was insistent. “He has given orders that all visitors must see him; he expects it.” Realizing that the man was evidently under orders to do nothing which might offend so powerful a chieftain, I consented to pay my respects.