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 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." "To-morrow ?" "Now--at once." The clerk looks at him curiously.