What fascinated us more than anything was the wonderful briskness, purity, and sweetness of the air. It seemed as if we never could have breathed real air before, and the experience was too delicious to describe. Softer and sweeter than the breath blown off Cornish moors when the heather is out, fresher and more invigorating than the sea-breezes one gets at Lowestoft pier on a bright September day; a whiff of this air of the Desert amply repays any hardships undertaken to obtain it. We felt as if we could never come away, as if we could never drink deeply enough of such precious, reviving, rejuvenating wine. The Commandant’s high spirits and comely looks, the butcher’s vivacity, the general look of briskness, physical and mental, among the people of Saïda, was accounted for. The sweet air of the Desert did it all. I think if I went to live at Saïda the great-grandchildren of those who read what I write about it now, might, if they journeyed thither, find me alive and hearty.
About half a mile from our point of view stood the little marabout which was to be our boundary mark, and, around it, we could see wreaths of white smoke curling from the dark brown tents, and horses and cattle feeding. Near to us were one or two wild-looking Bedouins keeping their sheep, which were marvellously transformed in the yellow light, their fleeces looking like bosses of bright, orange colour. Whilst resting thus, a serried line of wild geese slowly flew towards us, keeping a line like the German letter
till out of sight.
“Now we shall have rain,” said our driver. “One wants no weather-glasses at Saïda, I assure you.”
What inventions of man does one want indeed at such a place as Saïda? Place any one of quick mental capacity anywhere out of the world, that is to say, out of the conventional, comfortable world of shops, railways, and penny newspapers, and how readily does he shift for himself. Such a man as this butcher of Saïda had as many interests in life as any of us in these days of social, literary, and political excitement; he was always solving some knotty point in Algerian political economy, or speculating how this or that natural feature of the country could be turned to account. He knew the geography, geology, and mineralogy of every rood; he could tell what birds lived in the air, what beasts haunted the wastes, what plants grew in the oases, and how the Arabs lived in the Desert. It was curious to find how much more he respected the Bedouin than the Spahis, and how lightly he esteemed the moral influence of the French upon the people they had conquered. “Where are our Spahis?” I asked, for we had never seen our escort all the way.
He smiled and pointed to a cluster of Arab douars at some distance.
“You can’t see a little red speck among those tents, I dare say, Madame; but my eyes are used to looking a good way off, and I can. It is one of your precious Spahis, and he’s just thinking as much of you as his wives out there whom he has gone to see. I know ’em, those Spahis; they like nothing better than to be sent as escort with travellers, for that means that they can pay a visit to their women, who begin to cook cous-cous-sou as soon as ever they see a red cloak in the distance. When your Spahis have eaten up everything that comes in their way and seen enough of their good ladies, they’ll come home.”
And true enough, just as we were approaching Saïda, our escort came galloping up, two as wild and fine-looking men as you could see, their scarlet cloaks flung over their shoulders, their dark handsome faces wrapped in white linen trimmed with camel’s hair, their brown muscular arms bare to the elbow, their legs thrust in mocassins of crimson leather richly embroidered. They rode pretty little barbs, and sat upon their high-backed saddles with quite a royal air. Nothing in the world could be more picturesque or brilliant.
Saïda, that is to say, the Saïda of yesterday,—for the present settlement is entirely French,—was heroically defended by Abd-el-Kader, and, as we drove home, we saw the ruined walls of the old town and the deserted camp of the French soldiery. Throughout the entire province of Oran, indeed, you are reminded of Abd-el-Kader, whose career has a wild, sad, Saracenic pomp about it not at all in harmony with our present civilization.