Those disillusioning persons who insist that war has become entirely a matter of high-powered guns, cannon fodder, and casualties will be thoroughly discomfited by the reports from Morocco. There the dashingly romantic absurdities of uncommercialized combat are being reacted; prisoners are ransomed with Spanish gold; fiery sheiks of the desert sweep across the lonely sands with Damascan blades flashing in the sunlight.

Prosaic matters such as bullets do still enter into consideration, just as forcefully as they impress themselves upon the soldier; still, the romance of war is redeemed by the paltry value of the arid soil the Spanish and Moroccans are fighting over. This is no bating-match between rival nationalities; it is rather a jousting time for lumbering knights-errant.

The medieval comedy of the contest between subtle cowardice and stupid courage is revived from the dust of the dramatic past. General Primo De Rivera, appropriating the part of King John, remains in Spain to reap the benefits of domestic power, and sends his turbulent rivals a-tourneying with the swarthy Saladdins of the Sahara, with the possibility of martial glory and the certainty of political annihilation. He prays that his noisy King Richards may not return to plague him in his uncertain dominion over the restless liberals of Spain. He has even adopted the knightly tradition of conquering an enemy by joining forces with him: Raisull, a chieftain whom he could not defeat, he makes governor, even at the expense of pillaging a few Christians. Praise be to the shades of Walter Scott that at least one corner of the world can still enjoy its warlike jest!