rs to have a deep interest in the queer things to be
seen in the Arab village, for more than once he lingers behind to ask
questions as he explains, in the hope of purchasing some article that
has particularly caught his fancy.

John never once suspects that Sir Lionel may have another motive in his
actions.

When Mustapha announces that it is time they return, they look around
for the vehicle which was to take them back, but strangely enough it
does not appear.

As the minutes pass Mustapha grows exceedingly impatient. He has
arranged matters to suit their convenience, and this delay is annoying.
It does not suit him to return at night.

Just as patience ceases to be a virtue, and the guide has announced his
intention of finding some other means of transportation, they discover
the omnibus coming into view from beyond the thicket of cactus and aloe.

It has been carrying a load of villagers from their homes to the high
hills of Bouzaveah, to the native cemetery which crowns the summit.

Then they suddenly remember that it is Friday, or the Mohammedan Sunday,
on which day great throngs repair to the grave-yards and visit the tombs
of the _marabouts_ or saints, gazing upon some ancient relic which the
departed wore in his life-time, and which on account of its disreputable
condition no respectable European would touch.

They have the omnibus to themselves, which, of course, pleases them.

John shakes his head dubiously as he enters the vehicle. He has glanced
at its condition, and declares they will be lucky indeed to reach
Algiers without a break-down.

The driver has been scored by Mustapha for his tardiness, and appears to
feel the sting of the reproach, for no sooner are they seated in the old
vehicle than he uses his whip with some vim, the horses start away, and
they head for the city.

When the road is smooth it is all very good, but after leaving Birkadeen
they will strike a rough section that must try the staying powers of the
wretched vehicle.

As they whirl through Birkadeen in a cloud of dust, with several mangy
curs howling at the heels of the steaming horses, it is just sunset.
There is no mosque here with its minaret, from which the _muezzin_
chants his call to prayer, but the faithful do not need such a summons,
and can be seen here and there prostrating themselves on the ground with
faces toward the holy city.

One grows accustomed to such spectacles when traveling in oriental
countries wh