As the tourist turns the summit of Aboudid suddenly appears, like an ornamental detail in a panorama, this vast fortress, originally named Fort Napoléon, and since the collapse of the empire called Fort National. During the French troubles of 1871, in the month of August, General Cérès was obliged to inspire terror by burning the village of Thizzi-Ouzzou beneath, and then went on to relieve the fort. When the next opportunity will occur for the Beni Raten to assert their rights it is impossible to tell. We descend from the fort, and all becomes commonplace. The charred ruins of Thizzi-Ouzzou in its valley-bed are being replaced by new buildings. All wears a look of every-day thrift. The Arab, moving his household goods, drives before him his poor dingy wife, loaded down with worthless valuables and also with copper jewels, in which she clanks like a fettered slave. A negro musician from the Desert, a true African minstrel, capers before us and beats the tom-tom, until, distracted with his noise, we pay him and bombard him off the face of the road with projectiles. From Thizzi-Ouzzou to Algiers it is but four hours' journey, and the four hours are passed in a diligence. Yes, our circumstances are subdued to the conditions of the diligence! Adieu, our spahi guides, like figures from _Lalla Rookh!_ Adieu, our dream of an African Switzerland! The Roumi, outside of Kabylia, quickly fades into the light of common day, and becomes plain Tom or Harry. A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867. "And you traveled alone?" "There were two of us--Annie Foster and I." "You found no difficulty?" "Not a bit," she replied laughing. "But you had adventures: I see it in your face." "Who would travel without adventures?" and she made an expressive gesture. "Romantic?" "Hm!--_tant soit peu_." "I am all attention: begin." "You promise not to tell?" "Not for the world: torture could not induce me to divulge a single word."