The Kabyle woman enjoys a vastly better social position than her Arab sister, being permitted far more power and treated with more consideration. True, her husband buys her as he would a cow and can dismiss her whenever it so pleases him; she performs most of the heavy work about the house and farm; and when she is old, particularly if she has not borne a male child, she is frequently abandoned. But she has a voice in public affairs; she manages the household; she has a right to the money she earns; she goes unveiled; and in time of war she has frequently fought in battle beside her husband. The Kabyle pays his wife the compliment of remaining monogamous, and female saints are held in the highest veneration. When young the Kabyle women are usually strikingly pretty and graceful, and when they are old they rarely become the mountains of flesh one sees waddling through the streets of Arab communities, perhaps because hard work keeps them thin, perhaps because fat women are not popular in Kabylia. [Illustration: “UL-L-L-L-L-ALL-AH!” The spahis do not charge in line, like European cavalry, but every man for himself, as fast as his horse can put hoof to ground, the riders firing from the saddle] It is a half-day’s motor run, shortened by fine roads and enchanting scenery, from Bougie to Tizi-Ouzou—a fascinating name, isn’t it?—the capital of Kabylia, where begins the wonderful military highway, built by the French engineers, which leads to Fort National and to Michelet, the latter a charming little mountain village in the heart of the Djurjuras. Up and ever upward winds the road, now taking the steep ascent in a series of long zigzags, sometimes circumventing a particularly steep mountain by climbing it in endless spirals, again doubling back upon itself in perfect hair-pin turns, each of which discloses a panorama of breath-taking beauty and grandeur. Honesty compels me to admit, however, that it is not a road which a timid passenger or an inexperienced driver will thoroughly enjoy, for it is very steep, in places none too wide, and bordered by numerous giddy precipices, so that to negotiate it without disaster requires a cool head, good brakes, and a skilful hand on the wheel. Under Harvey’s experienced guidance, however, the big Cadillac skimmed up it like a swallow, though he had the paralyzing habit, acquired during the war, of charging the V-shaped corners at full speed and, when disaster seemed inevitable, suddenly jamming on the brakes, thus permitting the rear end of the car to skid around. This method doubtless saved time, but it was trying on the nerves and the tires.