small moment. A
silence broods over the scene; the tired passengers have gone to sleep;
all John can hear as he lies there is the dull throb of the engines and
the swish of water against the side of the vessel.

CHAPTER XII.

TO THE HOUSE OF BEN TALEB.

Algiers!

The sunset gun is just booming over the African hills as the steamer
drops anchor off the wonderful city where the French have gained a
foothold and seem determined to stay.

John Craig is in a fever to go ashore. He has had news that from Malta
his mother went to Algiers on a mission, and his one object in life is
to follow her until the time comes when he can see face to face the
woman to whom he owes his being, toward whom his heart goes out, and
whom he believes to have been dreadfully wronged.

Most of the passengers are going farther, but as the steamer will remain
in the harbor until morning, there is no need of any going ashore.

John, however, cannot wait.

He engages a boatman--there are many who at once come out to the steamer
for various purposes--tells his friends where they may find him, and
with his luggage is away, just before darkness sets in, for it comes
very soon after sunset in this country.

Upon landing, John secures a guide, and makes for the central square
known as the _Place du Gouvernement_, where he knows of a good hotel,
recommended by the captain.

The air is fragrant with the odor of flowers.

In his walk he meets strange people, Arabs, Moors, Kabyles from the
desert, long-bearded Jews, Greeks, negroes, Italians, and, of course,
French soldiers.

_Al Jezira_, as the natives call their capital, is undoubtedly the most
interesting city for a traveler's eyes, exceeding even Constantinople
and Cairo.

Part of the city is modern, the rest just as it might have been a
century ago, when the Algerian pirates made a reign of terror sweep over
the Mediterranean.

Omnibuses are seen, and even street-cars run to Birkadeen, a suburb. The
houses on the terraces of Mustapha Superieur are peopled with the nicest
of French and English families, who spend the winter in this charming
place.

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