A word of praise must be said for the organisation of, and order maintained amongst, so large a number of men as are collected in these vast camps. It must be remembered that every tribe and every district is represented by a certain number of members, conscribed by the Sultan previous to his setting out. These are often at open warfare with the surrounding tribes, members of all of which are also in the camp. Yet in spite of the fact that the men who have been at war with one another for generations perhaps become neighbours in the camp, few or no broils occur, and the general behaviour, to the onlooker, is excellent. At night the stillness and quiet were remarkable, considering the class of men, and the camp seemed almost deserted, few moving about, though no doubt this is owing as much to the fact that any man not carrying a lantern is liable to be shot by a sentry as to anything else—for the price of a lantern is beyond the reach of the ordinary soldier. From gun-fire at sunset to that at sunrise one can rest in absolute quiet, except for the band that plays at nine o’clock outside the Sultan’s tent, first on the native _ghaita_ and then on European instruments—very badly it must be acknowledged on the latter. By day it is more lively: soldiers hurry hither and thither, bright specks of colour in their gay, though often ragged, clothing; horses and mules, kicking up the suffocating dust, gallop to and fro; bugles sound; guns fire; and there is all the stir and bustle of townlife. I never tired of sitting in front of Kaid Maclean’s tent, under its awning, and watching the scene around me. As far as the eye could reach in any direction extended the tents, some the great circular _kubbas_ with their gilt globes and patterns in blue, some two-poled _utok_, and many resembling the ordinary regulation tent of our own army. From my vantage-ground I could watch the Sultan himself, a white figure seated under the tent of red and green cloth, and even recognise the Viziers as they stood before the open tent listening to his commands. I could see him, too, as he left and entered the private enclosure, and it was an interesting sight to watch how the whole life of the camp depended upon that one figure; how, when the time arrived for him to appear, the bodyguard ranged themselves into long line and bowed their heads as he passed them, crying, “_Allah ibarek amar Sidna!_”—“God grant blessings and his ‘fulness’ to our Lord!” It was easy to perceive how one and all, from the greatest of the Viziers to the least of the soldiery, lived in terror of, and with it almost adoration for, their Sultan. For of all autocrats there is none who holds power as does the Sultan of Morocco. Life and death, imprisonment and confiscation, as well as advancement and wealth, are all in his hands. A nod of his head, and a man rises from poverty to riches; another nod, and he dies secretly in prison. Yet in spite of the