Tafilet was reached at last, and only a few hours’ journey lay between me and the camp of the Sultan of Morocco, on the east side of the oasis. The illness I had felt coming on for the last few days was now well upon me, and not only did I find it impossible to eat, but even to swallow liquid was a process of pain, so large had the swelling in my throat become. However, this of all the nights of our journey was the one on which I could afford least to give way; for not only was my desire to reach Tafilet accomplished, but there were still weightier reasons why I should keep all my wits about me. We had left the Berber country now and had entered amongst Arabs, and though most of them little knew the looks of a European, for nearly thirty years had elapsed since the last traveller had visited Tafilet, yet they would be sure to recognise my foreign accent, and though it might not necessarily lead to my identity, it would at least cause an unpleasant amount of questioning as to whence I came. We had therefore invented a pretty little story about my coming from Syria to pray at the tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef, who lies buried at Tafilet; but, happily for the sake of our consciences, we were not obliged to make use of it, though I rather regretted not being able to address the little crowd with the speech, every word of which I had prepared, and which not only showed my great religious zeal, but was poetically expressed, and I am sure it would have pleased my hearers equally well. But, as I said, we were spared this, for no question was put to me directly, and our men did all the talking that was necessary in order to obtain admittance into the _ksar_—for so constantly are the Berbers and Arabs at war, that no stranger is allowed to enter unless he can give a satisfactory account of himself to the gatekeepers, and this custom is general throughout the oasis. However, it was dusk when we entered, for the sun was already set, and a few words explaining that we had come from the north—a vague term generally used of all Morocco north of Fez—and were on our way to the Sultan’s camp, sufficed to gain our admittance. Nor was my presence the only difficulty that might have caused us to come to grief, for the company of our Berber from Dads might by no means have aided us, and he was really nervous of entering into an Arab stronghold, lest some inhabitant of whom a relative had been killed by a Berber—a by no means uncommon occurrence—might think right to revenge himself upon an innocent passer-by merely because he happened to be of the same race. Guiltless as our Dadsi was on this occasion, I had gathered from his remarks on the road that he had by no means neglected opportunities when they presented themselves of putting Arabs out of the way.