And now, as the events of my story have so much to do with this North African shore, let us have a clear understanding of its cities and people. The coast is called Barbary, because the race that inhabits it are named Berbers. They belong to the same stock as the Anglo-Saxons and many of them have fair complexions, rosy cheeks and light hair. They are fanatical Mohammedans, and despise us because we are Christians. The Moors and Arabs, who are descended from the Mussulman warriors who captured Africa centuries ago, abound here too, and are the people with whom our quarrel lies. Barbary is sometimes called Little Africa. It extends from Egypt to the Atlantic Ocean and from the Mediterranean Sea back to the Sahara desert. Just over the way from Gibraltar lies Morocco. It is a little city with white walls surrounded by great hills. Most of the cities of Barbary are similarly situated between mountains and water. Next to the province of Morocco, lies Algeria, and farther on is Tripoli, the farthest boundary of which adjoins Egypt. Algeria, I learned, is five times as large as Pennsylvania. Algiers, one of the largest cities on the coast, is its capital. Walls of stone have been built across the harbor as fortifications. Algiers resembles an amphitheatre. Its streets rise on terraces. The streets are narrow; bazaars are everywhere. These are roofed over with matting and lined with booths in which all sorts of goods are sold. The booths are nothing more or less than holes in the walls in which the dealer sits, while the customers stand out in the street and buy. One bazaar is given over to the shoemakers; another bazaar is devoted to jewelry; still another is set apart for the sale of perfumery. Tailors, saddlers, rug sellers--each trade has a separate bazaar. Here are shops selling carpets and rugs, and there is a café in which Turkish coffee, as sweet as molasses, may be sipped. Yonder is the stand of an Arab selling sweetmeats; beyond him a man in a long gown fries meat and sells it hot from the fire. There are solid-looking public buildings, and a great mosque that covers several acres. A turbaned priest from the minaret which rises far above the roofs of the shops and homes calls out the hour of prayer, and the Mohammedans kneel. A picturesque crowd pours through the dark, narrow streets. Arabs in long gowns; brown Arabs from the desert; Berbers from their country villages; Jewish girls in plain long robes of bright colors--pink, red, green, and yellow; Moorish women in veils; Berber girls with their rosy faces exposed; boys with shaved heads, wearing gowns and skull caps; holy men and beggars innumerable. Some of these veiled Mohammedan wives are only thirteen years old. We anchored off Sale, a harbor of Morocco. I heard our skipper tell the mate that he proposed to go ashore and inquire into the chances of disposing of part of our cargo to advantage.