The gardens of the palace—which is now the residence of the French general who commands the garrison—more nearly approach those so glowingly described in Eastern poems than any others I have ever seen; for their lofty walls completely shut out the dust and turmoil of the city; the only sound is the gentle splash of water in the marble fountains; the sun, sifting through the foliage of the orange-trees, falls on the marble pavement in patterns of lace-like delicacy; and the air is fragrant with the scent of many flowers. But when the shadows of night have settled down upon them I wonder if they are not haunted by the wraiths of the wretched Christian women who were torn from their homes and families by the corsairs and brought here to gratify the lust of the bey; if white figures do not flit distractedly through the cloisters or down the lanes of orange-trees; if from yonder latticed balcony do not come strains of ghostly music made by the flutes and fiddles of the poor blinded musicians whose eyes were torn out by order of the tyrant in order that they might not look upon the unveiled loveliness of the dancers for whom they played. With what terrible memories are they filled, these enchanted gardens! They have looked on countless scenes of misery and horror, resounded to the shrieks of tortured men and outraged women, witnessed the dying struggles of captives who perished by poison, strangulation, or the knife. And all this, remember, was not in the dim and distant past but within memory of men who are still alive. Some of the tales of those days are incredible in their ferocious cruelty. Such is the story of the beautiful white concubine, who, having displeased her lord and master, was hurled by his orders over the cliffs of Sidi Rechad. Miraculously saved from death when her garments caught on a jutting rock, she was rescued with the utmost difficulty only to meet a still more hellish end at the hands of the bey’s torturers.