Biskra, The Ziban Queen 



587 



fezzes, the white draperies contrasting 

 with the gay gowns of the Ouled-Nails. 

 Four other visitors, likewise with Arabs 

 from the hotel, had come to see the 

 dance, and as two of them were unmis- 

 takably English women, they had as un- 

 mistakably disobeyed Mr. Murray. 



Places were made for us on a bench 

 beside some Arabs. Mahamed brought 

 coffee to us, the orchestra redoubled its 

 weird, monotonous, doleful music, and 

 the dancing commenced. Slow it was, at 

 first, and accompanied by much waving 

 of scarfs, a sort of bolero ; then it grew 

 more animated and suggestive, until the 

 girls, breathless and nearly exhausted, 

 crouched in front of the orchestra, and 

 two more took their places. As soon as 

 the first dancers had recovered a bit of 

 breath they walked about, stopping in 

 front of each group for expression of 

 appreciation in the shape of coin of the 

 realm. Mahamed gave me two pieces 

 to stick on the foreheads of the ladies, 

 for such is the fashion of payment. Con- 

 cerning the dance itself, I refrain from 

 detailed description. It was the danse 

 du ventre, or muscle-dance of the Orient, 

 a modified form of which was shown in 

 the Cario street of the Midway. It was 

 a bit suggestive and more than a bit 

 risque. 



Six kilometers from Biskra, under the 

 shadows of Djebel-bou-Ghazal, are the 

 marvelous hot springs of Hamman Sala- 

 hin, the "Bath of the Saints." A tiny 

 tram runs to it, out across the sands, and 

 the place is curious to see. The water 

 bursts out with great violence at the rate 

 of forty liters a second and at a tempera- 

 ture of 112 Fahrenheit. There are 

 baths for French and other visitors, and 

 these are said to be very efficacious for 

 rheumatism. Outside. the baths the sur- 

 plus water is collected in reservoirs for 

 the Arabs to bathe ; there is some super- 

 stition attached to the springs, and the 

 natives plunge in and parboil themselves 

 in the holy water. 



If Biskra is the political and social 

 center of the Ziban, and the Ziban is the 

 group of prosperous oases, villages ex- 

 tending from the foot of the Aures 



Mountains to the Chott-Melghir, the re- 

 ligious capital is Sidi-Okba. Sidi-Okba 

 is an oasis distant twenty kilometers from 

 Biskra, and is named for that old war- 

 rior who, at the head of a small body of 

 Arab cavalry, went forth to conquer 

 Africa in the sixtieth year of the Hed- 

 jira. When he had extended his con- 

 quest from Egypt to Tangier, he spurred 

 his horse into the Atlantic, declaring that 

 only such a barrier could prevent him 

 from forcing every nation beyond it who 

 knew not God to worship Him only or 

 die. In a revolt of the Berbers he was 

 killed, A. D. 641, and when the Arabs 

 had reconquered the Ziban their leader 

 was buried in the oasis which bears his 

 name. 



The track across the desert to Sidi- 

 Okba is practical for carriages, and our 

 turbaned driver galloped his three 

 horses harnessed abreast over the hum- 

 mocks of sand and tufts of sage-brush 

 till we begged for slower pace. Soon 

 after leaving Biskra we crossed a stony 

 tract a quarter of a mile broad, with a 

 deep stream in the center, the Oued- 

 Biskra, and emerged on the desert. The 

 tiny oasis of Feliah is passed on the right, 

 the dome of a Marabout's tomb shining 

 among its trees. The long, low-lying line 

 of the palms of Sidi-Okba is in the dis- 

 tance ; the Aures Mountains rise in 

 golden and rose glory, the deep clefts in 

 their side blue and mysterious. 



Groups of Bedouin tents are passed at 

 intervals, and the scarlet rug, the copper 

 pan, the fire, and its group are dashes of 

 bright color in the yellow-browns of earth 

 and camp, canopied always with the daz- 

 zling blue of the sky. Herds of camels 

 feed on the dry sage-brush of the plain, 

 and the baby camels trot by their mothers 

 in coltish fashion. 



Occasionally three or four little fellows 

 dart from the camps as we pass, and run 

 nimbly by the side of the carriage. 

 "Sontie, Sontie," they call, and stretch 

 out pleading hands. Centimes, to be sure, 

 are what they ask, and when we throw 

 out some sous there is a diving of little 

 black polls, a scramble, and a fresh 

 sprint. Having no clothes, they could 



