Still, if one enters the native quarter, ascending the narrow streets where no vehicle can ever come, where the tall, white houses, with their slits for windows, almost meet above, shutting out the cheery sunlight, where one meets the Moor, the Arab, the gipsy, the negro porter, the native woman with her face concealed almost wholly from view, it would be easy to believe the city to be entirely foreign and shut off from European intercourse.
Within a stone's throw how different the scene—the wide streets, the fine houses, the people of Paris and London mixing with the picturesque costumes of the natives, the bazaars, music in the air coming from the Kasbah, once the stronghold of the merciless Janizaries, now the barracks for French zouaves, the bric-a-brac merchant with his extraordinary wares spread out, while he calmly smokes a cigarette and plays upon the mandolin.
No wonder the pilgrim in Algiers is charmed, and lingers long beyond his time.
John has glimpses of these things on his way to the hotel, and although his mind is hardly in a condition to take much notice of such matters, they nevertheless impress him to a certain degree.
Dull, indeed, must be the man who cannot grasp the wonderful beauty of such a scene. At another time John would have been charmed.
He reaches the hotel, and at once engages a room. Supper is ready, and he sits down to a meal one can hardly procure outside of Paris itself, and served in French style.
If any one were watching John, his nervousness would be perceptible.
From the table he seeks the office of the hotel.
"What can I do for monsieur?" asks the polite attendant, seeing him standing there expectantly.
"I desire to procure a guide."