They met not a soul as they walked, but while the village was still far
away and unreal, the bark of guns, fired quickly one after the other,
jarred their ears, and the mountain wind brought a crying of raitas,
African clarionettes, and the dull, yet fierce beat of tom-toms.
"Now I know why we've met no one," said Nevill. "The wedding feast's
still on, and everybody who is anybody at Yacoua, is there. You know, if
you're an Arab, or even a Kabyle, it takes you a week to be married
properly, and you have high jinks every day: music and dancing and
eating, and if you've money enough, above all you make the powder speak.
Mouni's people are doing her well. What a good thing we've got the
watch! Even with Josette's introduction we mightn't have been able to
come near the bride, unless we had something to offer worth her having."
The mountain village of Yacoua had no suburbs, no outlying houses. The
one-story mud huts with their pointed red roofs, utterly unlike Arab
dwellings, were huddled together, with only enough distance between for
a man and a mule or a donkey to pass. The best stood in pairs, with a
walled yard between; and as Stephen and Nevill searched anxiously for
some one to point out the home of Mouni, from over a wall which seemed
to be running down the mountain-side, came a white puff of smoke and a
strident bang, then more, one after the other. Again the wailing of the
raita began, and there was no longer any need to ask the way.
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