Many of these handsome girls could not, I think, be distinguished from Italians, if transported to San Germano or Atina, and dressed like Italian peasants; but the majority are of course not handsome, and there is a type of countenance which is peculiar, as though there might be some admixture of Tartar blood—broad faces with marked cheek-bones, and thickish lips. Their hair is always of a raven black; I imagine they sometimes add that which they think nature lacks, because the men are not all dark-haired. The colour that warms the cheeks of these brunette beauties is also sometimes due to feminine art.
The men have good-shaped heads and marked features; before middle age they are strongly bronzed, furrowed, and rugged; most wear black moustachios and beards; now and then one will be found with hair as red as any Scotchman’s. There is undoubtedly more variety than amongst the Arabs. The Arab has a high prominent nose, with a droop in the line of the nostril, like Dante’s nose; full projecting lips and invariable black hair. The Kabyle is wanting in all this; he is lower of stature, but has more expression of countenance. Unfortunately, the children have not the delicate beauty comparable to what one sees in an Arab town like Tlemcen.
At evening came our second kouskous from hospitable Taourirt. When all was finished, we handed round cups of tea—a beverage the Kabyles were not acquainted with, and appreciated; at dusk they took their departure.
The wind during the afternoon had dropped, but the atmosphere was ominously murky and sultry, the mountains barely visible, patches of snow on their summits just showing above their shadowy bodies. When the Kabyles left, the wind was rapidly rising, while a black dangerous-looking cloud stretched itself from one horizon to the other, the sky on either side remaining clear.
Wednesday, April 14, 1880.—What a night this was a prelude to! Soon the wind, straight from the tops of the Jurjura, came rushing and raging over the abyss below, and shook our tent, as if it were a leaf on the point of parting from its bough. About midnight there was a lull; we hoped that the worst was past. No; we had as yet been treated only to the overture; the winds, which seemed to have been collecting and gathering evil strength in the valleys, suddenly rushed onwards again like wild beasts determined to destroy us, roaring as they swept in fury through the trees. I never heard such a storm, and we were sorely afraid that no tent could stand it for long; sleep was out of the question, we sat up all night ready against any emergency, for we dreaded a catastrophe every moment. The central support was made of iron tubing, with a cap at the top; this latter was carried away early in the evening—a mishap that let in the wind between the canvas and the lining; some of the attachments gave way, and the lining flapped in an ungovernable manner. When it became light enough to examine, we found most of the wooden pegs pulled out of the ground, and the ropes fastened to gravestones broken; six long irons only, driven in up to their heads, remained firm and had saved us. Thankful we were that the tent was standing; it had stuck on bravely to the mountain, like a limpet to a rock, when the rising waves rush over it. It was a sirocco not to be forgotten. ‘As whirlwinds in the south pass through, so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible land.’ Later in the day, the wind somewhat abated in its fury, but we remained in the tent, glad to take some repose.
In the afternoon we searched for a fresh camping-ground, as it was impossible to remain in safety where we were; this was not easy to find, uncultivated land being restricted, and not sufficiently level. We concluded that there was only one practicable spot, the corner of a fallow field, thoroughly protected from the sirocco by the hill; the next thing was to get permission to camp there.
Père Voisin good-naturedly helped us. The owner of the field was absent, but the Amine of Ouarzin gave leave, saying no one would disturb us. This settled, we lost no time; a party of Kabyles came down to lend help; half-an-hour later all our effects were transported on their backs to the spot, and as night fell, the tent was well pitched in its new position, and the fire lit to prepare our evening meal. On turning into bed, we congratulated ourselves, for we heard the tempest, howling and raging with renewed fury, above; but before reaching us its strength was broken and lost in the surrounding trees, and the tent remained in peace and quiet.
Thursday, April 15, 1880.—Several paths converged at the point where we now found ourselves, the most frequented being a steep lane leading to the fountain. It was shaded by trees whose branches interlaced elegantly with pretty peeps on to the distance; from the entrance to our tent we looked straight down this lane, towards the spring about two hundred yards off. The word ‘spring’ would suggest to most people simply water bubbling up and running off in a diminutive stream; a better word to use in this instance is ‘fountain,’ the French ‘fontaine,’ which has a different meaning to ‘spring,’ ‘source’—inasmuch as it implies a basin, artificial or natural, combined with a natural welling-up of water. Unfortunately, the word ‘fountain’ is applied also to contrivances by which water is made to spout, the French ‘jet d’eau.’ The Kabyle fountain in question is a natural spring rising in the centre of a basin inclosed in a rude architectural structure, having a double arched entrance and gabled roof. The water is thus protected from dirt, dust, and the heat of the sun. By the side where the women fill their pots is a second structure, much dilapidated, reserved for the watering of beasts. The overflow is conducted into a basin where the women wash clothes, and then runs gurgling down the mountain-side. In an embowered nook, where there are neat terraced beds of vegetables, little gutters are arranged, so that at the end of the day the overflow can be conducted there; when the bed nearest the fountain has been saturated, the water is blocked off from the first trench with a spadeful of earth, runs on to refresh the next, and so on till all the garden has drunk its fill; when the rivulet, having done its work, regains its liberty.
So when a peasant to his garden brings
Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs,