As I had read and heard much of this performance by Arab horsemen, I was consequently most anxious to see it and disregarded the amused comments of my companions when I hurried off ahead of them at the sound of a rifle shot and the staccato of horses' hoofs mingled with the shouts of the riders. The fantasia was beginning. I found the whole square surrounded by Arabs, Berbers. Jews and Europeans, but not a woman among them. Knowing well that a fantasia brings together many finelooking, appealing men who become more and more inspired by the spirit of battle and that a woman's heart is readily moved by displays of courageous strength, the jealous monsters, men, lock well the strong doors of their houses to prevent the possibility of their wives and daughters from "showing a foot" or letting their voices be heard, in accordance with the directions of the merry and wise patron saint of Tlemsen.
At the southern end of the place were gathered a score of riders with their horses pressing one against the other, rearing, fighting and kicking. As the orchestra struck up a quick rhythm, eight riders separated from the mass and ranged themselves in line with military precision. Resting the butts of their long Moroccan rifles against their right hips, they sat motionless like a group of wonderful models for some master sculptor's hand, awaiting the signal that should galvanize them into action.
Who would give it? My eyes searched round to find tire man who should command and direct the spirit of action in these handsome riders on their wild and lovely steeds, of these warriors in their picturesque attire with their bournouses that will soon be veritable wings, with
