One of these, surrounded by ruins, bears the name of Chehoud el Batal, or the false-witness; for once, so runs a legend, men, women, and children united in bringing lying evidence against a man great and holy, much beloved of Allah, so in the very act they were all turned to stone, and the stones remain where they fell for a witness to this day.
At mid-day we halted at Testour, once Colonia Bisica Lucana, though little is left to tell the tale. Really it is a bit out of Spain, an Andalusian hill city, with minarets that recall the old belfries of that country. The inhabitants are still called Andaleuss, and are said to be direct descendants of those Moors who escaped from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella.
Donkeys, laden with huge water-pots, led us up the steep hill, into the town, towards an open space, or plaza, with arcaded cafés blinking in the sunshine. Low one-storied houses with tiled roofs are built on either side of a street which is both wide and straight—a most unusual plan in a Moorish town, and very unsuitable for great heat.
Every scrap of shade was occupied by listless Arabs, who just roused themselves sufficiently to take part in the slight bustle of our arrival, followed by the diligence, and then crept back to doze once more. There is no inn, but the postmaster’s wife provides food in her cool, clean rooms for dusty, wayworn travellers. Her patient face, sad with the loneliness of exile, lighted up with pleasure at the chance of a chat with some of her own sex who knew la belle France. Only three or four European families live at Testour, and she and her husband are the only French inhabitants. Many men pass through on business, but ladies are comparatively rare. In the summer, traffic almost ceases, for the heat is so trying, and, notwithstanding the breezy situation, the thermometer occasionally rises to 112° Fahrenheit. There was a note of plaintive endurance in all the talk of the hostess, an attempt to make the best of things, a certain pride in the knowledge of Arabic and of triumph over housekeeping difficulties, mixed with a thorough dislike for the country, and contempt for the indigène and all his ways. Yet the country is beautiful, almost homelike, and could be made very rich.
A little further on is Ain-Tunga, or Thignica, a small village now, whose importance in the past is shown by the ruins scattered round a few poor houses. The Byzantine fort still preserves an air of solid strength, but only fragments enough remain to excite a languid interest in the two temples, the theatre, and a triumphal arch.
As the shadows lengthened, the country became more and more charming, for we were nearing the borders of Khroumirie, the most beautiful part of Tunisia. Clear streams and glades of olive trees became more frequent, and peeps of distant mountains gave variety to the hills and dales of a pastoral land.
Wonderful legends of lions are told of all this district. As many as sixteen are said to have been seen together at one time in one valley, through which we now drove so carelessly. The scenery is too peaceful to suggest the thought of wild beasts, and it is easier to believe in lions amongst the rocks of El Kantara, or the mountains of the Atlas and the Aures, than in this sylvan spot.
Teboursouk, the goal of the day’s journey, appeared at last on the brow of the hill, its walls and minarets rising from a silvery sea of olives, the witchery of the sinking sun increasing the effect of height and distance, and throwing a veil of light over the few modern houses on the outskirts.
Notwithstanding the noise and clatter caused by our arrival, the inn, with its imposing name of Hôtel International, seemed fast asleep; but at last the shouts of the travellers by diligence produced an Arab servant. Happy-go-lucky is the only way to describe the place. The Italians who kept it were fettered by no ordinary ideas of the proprieties. Dogs and babies, food, empty plates, pans and brushes, decorated the staircase and upper hall; pretty girls trotted about in an artless négligé of chemise and petticoat, with their hair down and their feet bare, until the second déjeuner, when they appeared in flowery cotton wrappers, with their hair elaborately dressed. It was not till dinner-time that they donned a full toilette, and enjoyed little flirtations with the officers. They made a cheerful din, with loud shouting and much laughter, but the Arab servant did all the work, smiling and willing as usual. The rooms were fair, and the food, considering all things, quite tolerable, though when hot water was asked for, it made its appearance in a small, rather dirty, saucepan.
Another of the peculiarities of Teboursouk was that it contained no carriages, so that we were bound either to retain our rattling, boneshaking conveyance at a fee of twenty francs a day, or else pay the penalty by making the return journey in the diligence, a still sorrier vehicle, always crowded to suffocation with colonists and Arabs with their bundles, who, not content with over-filling the seats, perched themselves on the top of the baggage on the roof.