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"In every part of the land, from the great black waters to the Niger and far beyond, even to the sun-scorched country of the Maghrib, her fame is known to all men. She is rich, mighty and mysterious. Her power is dreaded throughout the forests and the grass-plains, and it is said that in her wrath her voice is so terrible that even the mountains quake with fear."
Under date palms the white-robed Arabs sat smoking. From time to time black slaves brought them coffee flavored with ambergris. After sundown, at the hour called "maghrib," when the sky was turning green, having performed their ceremonial ablutions, they prayed. "For what?" "Behind the formal words? Who knows? For whatever they desired most. Probably for something that nobody would suspect."
He seated himself on a knoll where his master could easily see him when he left the excavator's tent. It was not yet time for the performance of his maghrib, or sunset prayer, which had to be said a few minutes after the sun had set. He began to recite his rosary, telling an attribute of God to each bead.
It's worked up from the little water-colour I made outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman, up here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored him, and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with his helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his eye, and the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone.
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