It was a Sunday morning when we went ashore at Bizerta, and the town was as peaceful as a rural community in France. But as we were strolling through the tortuous byways of the picturesque Andalusian quarter—founded by the Moors driven from Spain—a pistol barked in a doorway, and the report was echoed by a woman’s scream. French gendarmes, native _goumiers_, and military police came on the run, followed, it seemed, by half the population of the town. In less time than it takes to tell about it the narrow thoroughfare was packed from wall to wall with an excited mob. “What’s the trouble?” I inquired of a zouave who emerged from the press about the doorway. “_N’importe, m’sieur. N’importe_,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “A rascally Senegalese has just murdered an Arab woman.” “And you told me,” my daughter said reproachfully, “that I wouldn’t find Bizerta interesting!” * * * * * The dense gray fog, which had hung like a pall over the wintry Mediterranean since shortly after our departure from Marseilles, abruptly lifted as we left Bizerta, and thence onward to La Goulette the Tunisian coast unrolled its panorama bright and clear under the February sunshine. As I leaned on the rail, my glasses trained upon the shore-line, which slipped past as on a motion-picture screen, a White Father emerged from the smoke-room and joined me. [Illustration: LO, ALL THE POMP OF YESTERDAY.... “Delenda est Carthago!” cried Marcus Cato, and so efficiently was his command carried out that two small lagoons—the one at the left corresponding to the ancient military harbour, the other to the commercial port—are almost all that remain of the great city founded by Dido] Shortly he tapped me upon the shoulder. “Look, my son! Look! Over there....” With my glasses I followed the direction of his outstretched finger. But all that I could discern was a range of distant violet mountains and in the middle foreground, rising somewhat abruptly from the plain which sloped down to meet the shingled strand, a low, isolated hill. Its lower slopes were clothed with vegetation—fields of barley, vineyards, patches of cactus—broken here and there by what appeared to be huge rubbish-heaps and excavation mounds. Higher up, amid dark clumps of cypress-trees, I could make out some scattered, white-walled buildings, one of them, judging from the gilded cross which surmounted it, a church. At the foot of the hill, near the margin of the sea, the sun was reflected dazzlingly from the surface of two small, curiously shaped ponds. “_Delenda est Carthago_,” quoted the priest.