Before retiring every evening Squall had the task of examining and testing his weapons, of which he had enough for us all. A ‘Webley’ and ‘Colt’ were not sufficient, he must also bring to the roof his rifle, on the butt of which were fourteen notches, one for each Moor he had shot. He clanked up the steps like Long John, the pirate, coming from ‘below,’ in ‘Treasure Island.’ When he had got into the hammock, lying comfortably on revolvers and cartridge belts, his gun within reach against the wall, he would begin to talk. ‘You chaps think I bring all these “shooting-irons” up here because I’m afraid of something. Only look at what I’ve been through. I’ve got over being afraid. The reason I bring them all up with me is that I don’t want them stolen,--I mean to say there isn’t any lock on the door, you know.’ ‘Go to sleep, Squall.’ ‘I mean you chaps haven’t got any business talking about me being afraid.’ ‘Can’t you tell us about it at breakfast, Squall?’ One night Squall wanted to borrow a knife; his, he said, was not very sharp. He had been out ‘on the lines’ that day, and he wanted it, he explained, to put another notch in his gun. Sometimes a patrol would pass in the night, and we would hear the three pistols and the gun click. Once the gun went off. At daybreak we would rouse old Squall to go and make coffee, and while he was thus employed we were entertained by the occupants of a ‘kraal’ (I can think of no better description) next door. In a little, low hut, built of reeds and brush, directly under our roof, lived a dusky mother and her daughter. The one (I imagine) was a widow, the other an unmarried though mature maid. They were among the score of Moors who had not fled, and there being no men of their own race about they were not afraid to show their faces to us. The mother was a hag, but the younger woman was splendid, big and broad-shouldered, with a deep chest. Her colour was that of an Eastern gipsy, bronze as if sunburned, with a slight red in her cheeks; she was black-haired, and she always wore a flower. From her lower lip to her chin was a double line tattooed in blue, and about her ankles and arms, likewise tattooed, were broad blue bangles, one above her elbow. The clothes that she wore, though of common cotton, were brilliant in colour, generally bright green or blue or orange-yellow, sometimes a combination; they were not made into garments but rather draped about her, as is the way in Morocco, and held together with gaudy metal ornaments. Two bare feet, slippered in red, and one bare arm and shoulder were always visible. While this younger woman cooked in the open yard, and the old crone lean and haggard watched, they would look up from their kettle from time to time and speak to us in language we could not understand. We threw them small coins and they offered us tea. But we did not visit the ladies, to run the risk, perhaps, of dissipating an illusion.