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The place at which we had halted for lunch was El Faidar, within sight of one of Morocco's countless little white saint-houses Sidi Bousuktor. Now, after a long climb over a ridge, we looked down from the top into a valley Ain-el-Hadger; and Omar pointed out in the distance the spot he suggested we should camp at for the night.
The Ain-el-Hadger guard had each received a trifle for his night's services; Saïd had groomed and brought up our mules; we mounted, and, followed by himself and Omar, perched on the top of the two packs, their guns sticking out at one side, rode away.
The guard had stopped talking, and were all asleep and snoring round the tents, except one old greybeard, who was sitting up by the fire. Four Ain-el-Hadger men had come to act as guard for the night, bringing their guns and long knives with them. Such a dawn woke us at five!
We rode down through these fruitful acres as the sun was getting low: here and there lay a little white farmer's house; birds were everywhere suddenly we heard a cuckoo, then a nightingale. At a place where three little glens met we passed a tall look-out tower, standing sentry over each one, from the top of which the Ain-el-Hadger people could easily see an enemy coming.
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