Then all was over again, save for
a choking-fit produced by a deluge of bituminous coal.
Just a little flutter.
But outside that tunnel, in the sunshine, I sat down and indulged in
certain musings. _Suicide of an Englishman in Tunisia_: that was it;
inasmuch as even they who know me well could hardly be brought to believe
that such an act of abysmal foolishness, as this of not investigating on
which side the safety-niches were, could be the result of accident. An
ignoble, ridiculous death.
It must have been a fit of temporary obliviousness, brought about by the
unaccustomed heat of the sun.
Or possibly the _kif_....
It affects people differently.
I must limit myself to three pipes, in future.
_Chapter XVII_
_ROMAN OLIVE-CULTURE_
Now, on the former occasion, instead of descending into the _bordj_ from
the railway line, I rode with the Tripolitan once more out of the
rock-portal into the plain, that glowed with the fugitive fires of sunset.
It is a treeless waste, bereft of every sign of cultivation.
And yet, if you look on your left hand as you issue from the gorge, you
will perceive, at the very narrowest point, some fragments of ancient
masonry adhering to the cliff; they are all that remains of a Roman dam
which blocked up the valley, regulated the supply of water flowing from
above, and purified it from stones and sand.
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