“And as I mean to be to the end of the chapter,” replied Mariano. “How often, grandmother, have you not tried to impress on me the importance of following good examples? Have I not acted on your advice? Doubtless no man is perfect, and I am far—very far—from claiming to have been thoroughly successful in my efforts; but I have tried hard. Did I not, while in Algiers, follow the example of my dear father in exhibiting at all times a spirit of obstinacy that all but drove the pirates delirious with rage? Did I not afterwards imitate Lucien, (your pet-pattern), in getting to me the very best wife that the wide world could produce, and do I not now intend to follow your own example in remaining young in spirit until I am old in years? Taunt me not, then, with being wild—you cannot cure me.”

“I fear not,” replied the little old lady with a sigh which did not accord in the slightest degree with the ripples that played round her lips.

“Wildness runs in the family, mother,” said Francisco, with a broad smile and a glance at Lucien’s eldest hope, who had at that moment succeeded in breaking the string of the map, and pulling Algiers down on his head, “the Riminis have it in the blood and bone.—Get up and don’t whimper, there’s a brave fellow,” added the burly merchant as the astonished youth arose; “I only wish that one of the great Powers would pull down the real city of pirates as effectually as you have settled the map. Lord Exmouth no doubt gave it a magnificent pounding, but utter obliteration is the only thing that will do.”

“That’s true, father,” cried Lucien; “it must be conquered by a civilised nation, and the Turks be driven out, or held in subjection, if Europe is to have peace. Depend on’t they will be at their old tricks ere long.”

“I should like to be commander-in-chief when the war of conquest begins,” said Mariano.

“A poor job you’d make of it, my son,” said Francisco.

“Why so, father?”

“Why? because hot blood and a giddy head with a revengeful spirit are not the best elements wherewith to construct a commander-in-chief.”

“Ah! father, with every wish to be respectful I cannot refrain from reminding you of a certain pot which was reported once to have called a kettle black. Ha!” continued Mariano, turning towards the little old lady, “you should have seen him, granny, in the Bagnio of Algiers, when the guards were inclined to be rather hard on some of the sick—”

“No, no!” interrupted the old lady, shaking her head; “don’t talk of that.”

“Well, I won’t, except to say that I’m thankful we are well out of it.”

“It seems all like a strange dream,” returned the old lady thoughtfully.

“So it does, mother,” murmured Francisco, “so it does,—an almost incredible dream.”

And so it seems to us, reader, now that we have closed the record of it; nevertheless it was no dream, but a sad and stern reality to those who played their part in it—to those who sorrowed and suffered, sixty years ago, in the Pirate City.

The End

1

In 1795 the Americans concluded peace with the Algerians by the payment of half a million piastres, and an annual tribute of 24,000 piastres.

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1

This held true of the Kabyles until they were conquered, disarmed, and completely subdued by the French, who now hold possession of their land.

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It is said that the treasure in Algiers about the end of that century amounted to 4,000,000 pounds, most of which was paid by other governments to purchase peace with the Algerines.

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A very remarkable and authentic instance of this style of punishment is recorded in the annals of Algiers.

A Moor named Geronimo was, about the beginning of the seventeenth century, converted to Christianity by a captive. The reigning Pasha ordered him to recant, and gave him twenty-four hours to make up his mind. On his refusal, the Pasha caused Geronimo to be buried alive in the mud which was being poured into moulds and dried into blocks, for the purpose of building fort Bab-el-Oued. In this block the poor martyr was built into the wall of the fort, which was thereafter named the “Fort of the Twenty-four Hours.” The incident was soon nearly forgotten. Two and a half centuries afterwards, (in December 1853), the French, while carrying out their improvements in the town, destroyed the ancient “Fort of the Twenty-four Hours,” but were warned, by one who was well read in the history of the place, to be careful on razing a certain part of the walls to examine them well. They did so, and found the body of Geronimo—or, rather, the mould formed by his body, which latter, of course, had crumbled to dust. A plaster cast was taken from this mould, and this cast—which gives an almost perfect representation of the martyr lying on his face, with his hands tied behind his back—is now in the museum of the library of Algiers.

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