CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE CAFE OF THE CHASSEURS.
The red-hot light of the after-glow still burned on the waters of the
bay, and shed its Egyptian-like luster on the city that lies in the
circle of the Sahel, with the Mediterranean so softly lashing with its
violet waves the feet of the white, sloping town. The sun had sunk down
in fire--the sun that once looked over those waters on the legions of
Scipio and the iron brood of Hamilcar, and that now gave its luster on
the folds of the French flags as they floated above the shipping of the
harbor, and on the glitter of the French arms, as a squadron of the army
of Algeria swept back over the hills to their barracks. Pell-mell in its
fantastic confusion, its incongruous blending, its forced mixture of two
races--that will touch, but never mingle; that will be chained together,
but will never assimilate--the Gallic-Moorish life of the city poured
out; all the coloring of Haroun al Raschid scattered broadcast among
Parisian fashion and French routine. Away yonder, on the spurs and tops
of the hills, the green sea-pines seemed to pierce the transparent air;
in the Cabash old, dreamy Arabian legends, poetic as Hafiz, seem still
to linger here and there under the foliage of hanging gardens or the
picturesque curves of broken terraces; in the distance the brown, rugged
Kabyl mountains lay like a couched camel, and far off against the golden
haze a single palm rose, at a few rare intervals, with its drooped,
curled leaves, as though to recall, amid the shame of foreign
domination, that this was once the home of Hannibal; the Africa that had
made Rome tremble.
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