change,
eating his cakes and dainties, and delicately retiring on the stroke of
ten with thanks to the Prophet.

Left alone, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse by the broomstick
wedding would finish the evening on their terrace, a broad white roof
which overlooked the city.

All around them a thousand of other such white flats, placid beneath the
moonshine, were descending like steps to the sea. The breeze carried up
tinkling of guitars.

Suddenly, like a shower of firework stars, a full, clear melody would
be softly sprinkled out from the sky, and on the minaret of the
neighbouring mosque a handsome muezzin would appear, his blanched form
outlined on the deep blue of the night, as he chanted the glory of Allah
with a marvellous voice, which filled the horizon.

Thereupon Baya would let go her guitar, and with her large eyes turned
towards the crier, seem to imbibe the prayer deliciously. As long as
the chant endured she would remain thrilled there in ecstasy, like an
Oriental saint. The deeply impressed Tartarin would watch her pray, and
conclude that it must be a splendid and powerful creed that could cause
such frenzies of faith.

Tarascon, veil thy face! here is a son of thine on the point of becoming
a renegade!

XII. The Latest Intelligence from Tarascon.

PARTING from his little country seat, Sidi Tart'ri was returning alone
on his mule on a fine afternoon, when the sky was blue and the zephyrs
warm. His legs were kept wide apart by ample saddle-bags of esparto
cloth, swelled out with cedrats and water-melons. Lulled by the ring of
his large stirrups, and rocking his body to the swing and swaying of the
beast, the good fellow was thus traversing an adorable country, with
his hands folded on his paunch, three-quarters gone, through heat, in a
comfortable doze. All at once, on entering the town, a deafening appeal
aroused him.

"Ahoy! What a monster Fate is! Anybody'd take this for Monsieur
Tartarin."

On this name, and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian lifted
his head, and perceived, a couple of steps away, the honest tanned
visage of Captain Barbassou, master of the Zouave, who was taking his
absinthe at the door of a little coffee-house.

"Hey! Lord love you, Barbassou!" said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.

Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbassou stared at him for a space
ere he burst into a peal of such hilarity that Sidi Tart'ri sat back
dumbfounded on his melons.

"W