This shadowy
hollow, he explained, was the bridal couch, in olden days, of an earthly
maiden and her demon-lover. He was a simple fellow, unfortunately, who
knew the story too well to be able to tell it coherently.
On my second visit, however, I pushed vigorously up the stream-bed in the
heat of the morning, determined to reach the head of the waters. Gradually
the aspect of the valley changes. It opens out; the rocks melt away into
bare white dunes, the country assuming the character of a tableland; you
begin to feel a sense of aloofness.
There was blazing sunshine in these upper regions, but a fresh breeze;
this is the Ras el-Aioun, where the French have bridled some of the wild
waters, thrusting them into a tube that carries them in a mad whirl to
their settlement at Metlaoui. Here, too, they have planted a promising
youthful oasis, a kind of nursery garden of poplars and cypresses and
tamarisks and mimosas, in whose shade grow geraniums, mesembryanthemum and
other flowers and creepers, as well as a host of vegetables of every kind.
I soon discovered a recess in this delectable pleasaunce, and began my
solemn preparations for luncheon.
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