Biskra, The Ziban Queen 



569 



vember till May. Its genial temperature, 

 clear sky, and luxuriant vegetation are 

 indisputable charms, and its dry atmos- 

 phere makes it particularly curative for 

 pulmonary diseases. A gentle shower 

 during one day was the first rain that had 

 fallen for seventeen months, and yet 

 there is that never-failing supply of deli- 

 cious cold water from natural wells 

 throughout the whole oasis. 



There are five villages in this island 

 of the sand-sea, and the outlying oases 

 of Filiah and Geddecha also belong to 

 Biskra. The Arab villages and the vil- 

 lage des negres are built of sun-dried 

 mud, with doors and flat roofs of palm- 

 wood. Among the ruins of le vieux 

 Biskra, where before the new fort was 

 constructed the French fortified the old 

 Kasbah existing at their arrival, are a 

 heap of Roman blocks and columns, 

 which are all that remains of the Roman 

 outpost of Ad Piscinam. The French 

 village is clustered around Fort Saint 

 Germain, named for a gallant officer kill- 

 ed during the Zaatcha insurrection in 

 1849, ar, d which is capable of sheltering 

 the whole civil population. 



There is a pretty public garden, where 

 feathery pepper trees make a pleasant 

 shade, a church, a mosque, streets of 

 shops, a handsome casino and officers' 

 •club, and three good hotels, of which 

 the principal one, the Royal Hotel, is 

 said to be the best in Algeria. It is cer- 

 tainly a delightful surprise to find in 

 Sahara a hotel with every appointment 

 of elegance and comfort. Count de Lan- 

 don has a charming winter residence here 

 with a wonderful garden, which it was 

 our privilege to visit. He has success- 

 fully acclimated many precious tropical 

 fruit trees, among them the mango and 

 the custard apple, and possesses some of 

 the grandest specimens of Ponciana regia 

 in the world. 



A visit to the market place during the 

 morning is one of the sights of the town 

 and oriental in every tone. Squatting 

 groups of bronzed-legged Bedouins, in 

 brown and white camel's-hair burnouses, 

 are selling cous-cous, dried peppers, and 

 of course dates. Bunches of fresh grass 



and green barley and thistles are heaped 

 in one corner of the inclosure, Moorish 

 slippers here and a pile of red fezzes 

 there, and souvenirs for the tourist not 

 lacking. For fifty centimes one may 

 purchase a set of graceful gazelle horns, 

 and curious knives and Arabian guns 

 tempt the collector on her way. An ebon 

 negress is selling oranges, an Arab boy 

 in a red fez, and not much else, carries 

 a basket of purple fruit in green leaves, 

 while cloaks, burnouses, turbans, and 

 yakmahs, purple, blue, deep red, and spot- 

 less white all crushed together, make 

 kaleidoscopic color in the whitewashed 

 square. Bags of henna leaves, for stain- 

 ing the nails in Arab fashion, send forth 

 their pungent odor, and the aroma of 

 coffee and cigarettes fills the air. A 

 Kabyle girl in red gown, tattooed bluely 

 as to her forehead and cheeks, stained 

 yellow as to her finger tips, passes us, 

 cigarette in mouth, her bangles and ank- 

 lets clanking as she goes. 



Outside a Moorish cafe a row of 

 Moors, clean in their white burnouses, 

 are solemnly crouched, two of them 

 playing a grave game of chess, but the 

 rest doing nothing to perfection, without 

 a trace of boredom or a gesture of im- 

 patience, a state of dreamy delight 

 achieved apparently by habit of mind, a 

 realization of Arabian Keyf. Two merry 

 cantinieres go briskly along, and behind 

 them glide two Sisters of Charity. Oc- 

 casionally a tall figure in whitr* burnouse 

 and dark blue or pale gray cape, with 

 crimson fez and gold-embroidered jacket, 

 passes, and the dark eyes and white teeth 

 flash down in friendly glance. Occa- 

 sionally, too, there is a suspicion of genu- 

 ine attar-of-rose whiffed on the air, as 

 one of this oriental jeunesse doree walks 

 by us, and we are reminded of what an 

 Arabian courier once told us : "In my 

 country, if a man have perfume on his 

 clothes, it makes scandal !" 



Scandal there may be, even here, but 

 there is no yellow journal. News is cried 

 by a zouave who beats a drum, then 

 stands and proclaims his tale, and passes 

 on to the next street. Noises of all kinds 

 are rife, the impossible consonants of 



