The story has an air of
probability; such things are done every day, at every fountain throughout
the land. This lingering at the well is one of the moments when their hard
life is irradiated by a gleam of romance.
An old man also gave me the following account:--
Ages ago, he said, when Gafsa belonged to the Sultan of Trablus (Tripoli)
there was sad misgovernment in the land. The taxes became quite
unendurable, and the city was half emptied of its inhabitants, who fled
this way and that, rather than submit to the extortions of the Sultan's
officers. And among those who escaped in this fashion was a god-fearing
widow and her children. Her name was Leila. She took up her abode near
this fountain, which was then little frequented. Here she dwelt, doing
good works whenever occasion offered. And here, at length, she was
received into the mercy of Allah and entombed. The country-folk gave her
name to the water, to perpetuate the memory of her pious life....
The depression beyond this fountain is celebrated as the resort of game,
and yesterday a French gentleman of my acquaintance went there, provided
with all the accoutrements of sport, not omitting a copious
luncheon-basket--there might be snipe or partridges, or perhaps a hare, a
gazelle, a leopard--who knows?
He returned in good time for dinner.
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