We are the guests of a _Cherif_.[3] Two slave girls crouched on the carpet sing for us. The house is modern. But in each detail it is a copy of the classic Moorish style whose glory is Al-Hambra. These might be the days when Al-Ahmar, king of Granada, was friend of the Catholic Fernando; and when Christians were entertained in the Andalús even as we in the Moghreb. It is a long and narrow chamber, run round by a divan yielding with silk cushions. To a man’s height, the wall is mosaic. Above, it is white plaster exquisitely laced in arabesque. The ceiling is carved wood, textured and painted like a maze of flowers, with mother-of-pearl and gold within the toolings. Outside the door we see the court, and hear the song of the fountain. The mansion rises to four stories: upon each floor the balcony goes round and all the windows open in upon it. A girl brings subtly painted goblets; tea fused with mint is poured. Another slave places brasiers of sandalwood. The monotonous wail and rending song has ceased. The singers go in silence, as if they had left with us all that they had. We hear the pulse of the sea: an indeterminate murmur of voice and feet. Two little slaves, with eyes too far to be either friendly or hostile, linger and change our glasses, ere we have half drained them. “It is because we have disobeyed the Prophet.” A young man speaks. He is the eldest son and his burnouse is white, undecorated wool. He has laid aside his babouches and his feet are bare. He reclines on the divan, resting his languorous head upon a hand more exquisite than the lacework on the wall. The features are subtly virile. There is fire in them, and cruelty. He is a man fine-drawn--but altogether metal. He is twenty: not yet married. His life is the study of Lore at his _zaouïa_ and the writing of verse. “In Al-Koran it is written that we should work--we have not worked. It is written that all Islam should live in peace--we have fought each other. It is written that we should shun luxuriance and vice, that we should cultivate our soil and our minds. We neglect them. It is written that we should raise up our women--we keep them down. Therefore our life is disaster. Therefore the French are upon us. We have been the highest of peoples. Islam and Culture were one. In the old days, among a thousand men, there was not one who did not read. Within a thousand homes, there was not one but had delicate rugs, handsomely carved walls. Now, our houses are dark with smoke; our minds are dark with ignorance. Like the pest unto the unclean body, the French have come.” My host smiled, fearful lest the words of his too serious son should bring discomfort. “It is an evil hour: and it will pass.” “Are you acting,” I asked, “to make it pass the quicker?” “When we are ready, we shall act. Even as a child when it is ready to walk.” The son spoke. And his friend, a philosopher from Tunis, nodded.