The holy city of Tarudant lay to the north of me, and I had crossed the Wadi Sifan river and was going south from the Iber Kaken Pass on the caravan route east into the Ait Jellal country. There, deep in the hills, lies the ruin of a Roman city of which strange tales are told. It is even not certain that it is Roman, for a volume of notes, painstakingly compiled for fifteen years by a resident in a coast town, discloses unmistakable Phœnician characteristics, but I at least cannot tell, for my expedition had to beat a swift retreat a bare two days’ march from the nominal valley of the dead city. It was on the way there that my little troop of horsemen and pack mules halted at the Berber village of M’Aerbil Ida and were received as guests of honour for the night. The village was a curious medley of thorn and cactus fences, cane-thatched huts, and deep caves cut in the friable freestone rock of the mountain side. The men wore the close-knitted wool caps of the country and had the curious snake-like head angles and the long, curving sidelock and thin beards of coarse hair that just distinguish these strange, elf-like folk. Something in their broad cheekbones and curious pale eyes suggests the snake. Mohammed-el-Suissi, my horse boy, told me as he pitched my tent that he did not like the village or the people; “they were,” he said, “not good Moslemin.” As religious orthodoxy was not one of Mohammed’s strong points, I did not worry much, but when Hassan-el-Askri, my soldier muleteer, warned me to keep my arms about me I realized that my Moors considered that not even the law of desert hospitality was held inviolate among these folk. There is, however, a brotherhood of initiates of which I am a member, whose signs are recognized in many parts of the globe. Gesticulation is a feature of polite Arabic conversation, and I soon secured an answering sign from one of the head-men of the tribe. Within half an hour nobody in that village would have dared to steal the least of my belongings. I had considerable difficulty in carrying on my conversation as my Arabic, apart from ordinary needs of travel, was weak and classical rather than popular. The Berbers, too, always spoke of these things in their own tongue, Shilluh, and none of my entourage being initiate I had no interpreter. My host was Sidi-el-Belarni, an old chieftain who was also a _shereef_--that is, a lineal descendant of the Prophet and a person of sanctity. He soon dropped the mask of orthodoxy and conversed freely on the metaphysical side of his cult. I found it easier to understand than to converse with him, but gained an easier appreciation as I got used to it. I stayed a second day in the village, as one of our animals was badly lamed and needed rest, and took occasion to ask him concerning the art of reviving the dead to temporary life which the Berbers are commonly held to possess.