It was not yet time to go
and ask questions of the Caid, whom Nevill knew.
Stephen was advised not to drink coffee in the hotel before starting on
their quest. "We shall have to swallow at least three cups each of _cafe
maure_ at the Caid's house, and perhaps a dash of tea flavoured with
mint, on top of all, if we don't want to begin by hurting our host's
feelings," Nevill said. So they fasted, and fed their minds by walking
through Bou-Saada in its first morning glory. Already the old part of
the town was alive, for Arabs love the day when it is young, even as
they love a young girl for a bride.
The Englishmen strolled into the cool, dark mosque, where heavy Eastern
scents of musk and benzoin had lain all night like fugitives in
sanctuary, and where the roof was held up by cypress poles instead of
marble pillars, as in the grand mosques of big cities. By the time they
were ready to leave, dawn had become daylight, and coming out of the
brown dusk, the town seemed flooded with golden wine, wonderful,
bubbling, unbelievable gold, with scarlet and purple and green figures
floating in it, brilliant as rainbow fish.
The Caid lived near the old town, in an adobe house, with a garden which
was a tangle of roses and pomegranate blossoms, under orange trees and
palms. And there were narrow paths of hard sand, the colour of old gold,
which rounded up to the centre, and had little runnels of water on
either side.
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