In the house of this man my days were spent, just as I lived another three weeks with him on my return journey, and I received from him then, just as I have always done, every mark of kindness and hospitality. Even the interior of his house was open to me, and many a pleasant hour I passed playing with his little daughters, whose dresses of silks and brocades sparkled with jewels. By this time I had found opportunity to take stock of my travelling companions, who, as they played a by no means unimportant part in the success of my journey, deserve some notice. The chief of our party, by position, age, and, he himself would probably add, acquirements, was the elderly Shereef. In person he was dark, of a sort of coffee-colour, with a grey beard and moustache; a short figure inclined to stoutness, and a bad habit of trying to sing. Himself a native of the Sahara, it was on him that I principally relied for success in my undertaking, my personality and disguise being concealed under the bushel of his reputation and accomplishments. Principal amongst the latter was his knowledge of medicine, a hereditary knowledge it must be understood, part of the _baraka_, or blessing, of his august family, for he was a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed. I unfortunately had no opportunity of seeing the result of his skill, for when in his company I was never in one place sufficiently long to obtain any information as to the potency of the draughts he administered out of one of the three empty soda-water-bottles he had with him. It was entirely my own fault, though, that I did not see him perform the operation he was most skilled in—namely, cataract—for before leaving Tangier I had received a letter from him asking me to bring a large bottle of chloroform and a knife suitable for the purpose. This I steadily refused to do, and I think that the old man felt the slight I had unintentionally offered him, and fancied that I doubted his skill. At least he was always holding forth upon the subject, and continually repeating the story that when in Algeria he had been offered a fabulous salary—the sum varied each time the tale was told—to remain in charge of the military hospital at Algiers, an honour which he had declined. He never tired of narrating the facts and details of his most successful operation. There is a sect in Morocco called “Hamacha,” who are followers of a certain saint by name Sidi Ali ben Hamduch, who lies buried near Meknas. These devotees amuse their audience—and themselves too, let us hope—by throwing into the air heavy cannon-balls, which they allow to fall upon their shaven crowns. On the occasion in question a Hamdushi had unfortunately evidently been wanting in religious power, for the cannon-ball crushed his skull. My old Shereef friend had been called to the rescue, and according to his account, which, let us hope, for the sake of science as well as his own reputation, is a true one,