Reluctantly I left this strange open-air hall to climb to one of the watch-towers. The way was perpendicular; up notched palm-poles, and niches cut in the hard salt walls; then, through loopholes, into each of the three turret rooms that made up its height. On reaching any lofty outlook with country around it one usually looks outward on the vast panorama of landscape that presents itself. My first impulse here, on stepping out on the tower roof, was different. I turned at once in toward the town to peer down into the haunting pit I had just left, where glistened whitely in the sun, the urns of “The Forty Thieves,” like a picture of another age. And from that strange scene I slowly lifted my eyes in vain endeavour to learn where one single street in Fachi began and ended. Then I was lost in unstinted wonder at it all. Native history—imparted to me by the _Malam_, or learned man, of Fachi—has it that in bygone times the people of the town had no cunning in war, and were terribly harassed by raids. Arab caravans, with rich merchandise from Algeria and Tripoli to Bornu and Wadai, in those days passed through Fachi, and the uncertain safety of the place was not to their liking or benefit. Wherefore, the story goes, there came a time when Arabs arrived on the heels of an attack, when the town had been hard hit, and much reduced in strength. It happened that a great Arab from Tripoli was this caravan’s leader. He called the people of Fachi about him and said, in effect, according to the story, “Why is this? Enemy destroy you. You fear! You fly like the jackal into the desert to die! “Bah! You have not sense! But Allah has sent us to your aid. We will show you how to build so that henceforth you shall fear no one.” [Illustrations: WOMEN OF FACHI AND THEIR CURIOUS HEAD-DRESS] Whereupon they set about building a completely new city, not imperfectly, but under the strict supervision of the great Arab. It is said that if any part was imperfect it was ordered to be taken down and rebuilt. So that, in the _Malam’s_ words: “Fachi is built as it stands to-day, because a great Arab came from the north and taught our people sense.” He could not name the great benefactor, nor could I find anyone who knew. But that he came from Tripoli all affirmed. It is not impossible that he was one of the renowned Oulad Sliman tribe—Tripolitans who, in the past, migrated to settle near Mao, on the north of Lake Chad, to escape Turkish oppression. I turned from contemplation of the town to look over the landscape. From the top of the tower it was not so barren as from below, for the green groves of date-palms were prominently in view. The oasis holds little more of value than a narrow belt of palms, the pits of salt, and a good supply of subterranean water. For the rest, nothing but sand; the whole environment so unprepossessing that one cannot escape its terrible poverty. And inside the town a population that has barely food to keep body and soul together.