hood of Oran. The rock on which the church is built is a part of Mount Murjajo, whose summit, Aidour, is crowned with the walls, pinnacles, bastions and towers of the powerful Spanish castle of Santa Cruz. A forest of Syrian pines covers the whole mountain, whose sides are cut by excellent roads for motor cars and by numerous trails for lovers of mountain climbing and are dotted with many vantage points, from where, as we later learned, one unfolds views of the sea, the bay and the town, each more lovely and enthusing than the last.
We continued for some time with the towering Santa Cruz to starboard, until suddenly from behind a headland appeared a large town, dazzling white under the rays of the August sun and set with emerald oases of parks, squares and palm-lined avenues that climbed higher and higher to the residential district with its mansions, church steeples and dome-crowned mosques.
A strange peace, a faith in the future and a sense of gaiety reflected out from this silvery white town, so strongly that, as I chanced to turn and raise my eyes to the fortress of Santa Cruz, my mood of pleasant expectation gave place to a strange, uncongenial chill. I pondered for a moment over this unusual impression and was soon able to clothe it in a logical form.
I realized that I had before me two cultures, two psychologies, two systems of colonization—Spain with her severe, intransigent Catholicism of the Inquisition, with her proud kings, her bloody conquistadores, her mob despising people of another faith or color; the Spain of violence, of bloodshed and destruction; the ancient Spain, of which nothing remains save tradition, story and the
