Morocco by S.L. Bensusan — Read

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote / The droghte of March hath perced to the roote / Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. / _The Canterbury Tales._

We have rounded the north-west corner of Africa, exchanged farewell signals with our friend on Lloyd's station, -- who must now return to his Spanish and Arabic or live a silent life, -- and I have taken a last look through field-glasses at the plateau that held our little camp. Since then we have raced the light for a glimpse of El Araish, where the Gardens of the Hesperides were set by people of old time. The sun was too swift in its decline; one caught little more than an outline of the white city, with the minarets of its mosques that seemed to pierce the sky, and flags flying in the breeze on the flat roofs of its Consuls' houses. The river Lekkus showed up whitely on the eastern side, a rising wind having whipped its waters into foam, and driven the light coasting vessels out to sea. So much I saw from the good ship _Zweena's_ upper deck, and then evening fell, as though to hide from me the secret of the gardens where the Golden Apples grew.