* * * * * =Moorish scenes far from the beaten track=: A burning hot day in August.--The air trembles in the heat over the olive trees. The day hangs heavy in the blue vault of heaven. I had been wandering for long long hours, when all of a sudden my eyes were caught by a fata morgana: wafted perhaps from the coast of Morocco? No, it was no mirage. Impossible! Yet it did not disappear as I approached. Strange indeed was the scene: houses scattered like dice over a mountain (91). A timid lad of whom I asked the name of the spot, slunk shyly past me. My map was of no assistance to me. At last I was informed that I had arrived at “la muy noble y bel ciudad Mochagar, llave y amparo del reino de Granada". “What," I asked “this hamlet still calls itself the key and guardian of the kingdom of Granada? But that kingdom was destroyed half a thousand years ago when the Moors were driven from Granada." A miracle must have happened here that time should have remained stationary. Here was the pure Moorish impress. Most of the houses are windowless. The flat roofs are sometimes the road to the higher houses, and always their foot-stool. And although the water of baptism has wetted the women’s hair, they pass veiled in the Moorish fashion along the streets. With tucked up skirts and naked legs they step lightly along the steep alleys, returning from the fountains with water amphorae. They eye the foreign trespasser suspiciously and curiously. And when I requested the veiled women to let me take their photographs they stared at me, for they had never even seen a camera. I showed them a picture, and explained that I wanted to have theirs too. They refused. Finally one girl agreed. But an old scold hurried up and beat her for her frowardness: throwing herself away like that! In this Christian country I found shamefacedness and adherence to the laws of Mohammed. Let no mortal body serve as an image! An old man with whom I spoke about this incident told me that if a girl no longer veiled her face, but hid her legs, there was not much left to spoil about her. But I was determined that I would not leave without a picture of one of the veiled beauties. At last I succeeded, with the consent of the mother of one of the girls. The eye of my camera winked slyly when I took my snap-shot. In thanking the girl, I held out my hand, but she seemed quite taken aback, and hid her hands behind her. I pressed her to shake hands. I should not do her any harm. But her mother apologized for her saying: “No, she doesn’t mean to be rude, but it is not the custom in our country for a girl to let a man touch her hand before marriage." Perhaps this little incident explains the once much-used expression employed by wooers “will you give me your daughter’s hand?" (90) * * * * *