The Governor.—"I have no money."
The Souafee.—"Make haste, give me money."
The Governor.—"Have none."
The Souafee.—"Where's the money?"
The Governor.—"Go to the Ghadamseeah."
The Souafee.—"They tell me you have all their money."
The Governor.—"Go to them."
The Souafee.—"I'm going, Bislamah (good bye.)"
The Governor.—"Bislamah."
As the Souafee left the threshold of the apartment, his Excellency turned to me, and raising his right hand underneath his chin, drew its back jerkingly forwards, making the sign of the well-known expression of contempt in North Africa. He then said to me:—"See what a life I lead, what insults I am obliged to put up with! what beasts are these Arabs!" The Souafah are, indeed, the type of the genuine Desert Arab. They have no foreign master, and manage all their affairs by their own Sheikhs and Kadys. The immense waste of sand lying between Ghadames and Southern Tunis and Algeria, is their absolute domain, in the arid and thirsty bosom of which are planted, as marvels of nature, their oases of palms. The Shânbah bandits, who plunder every body, and brave heaven and earth, nevertheless dare not lay a finger on them. I cannot better represent the feelings of the Souf Arab, nor the "wild and burning range" of his country, than by quoting the lines of Eliza Cook:
