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Updated: June 16, 2025
Next day, when they were able to return with reinforcements, they surprised the Moors lying in wait around the kasbah, but afraid to approach. The ground was covered with seventy-five of their killed. Our men drove them off. They found Private Perenna stretched on the floor of the kasbah. They thought him dead. He was asleep! He had not a single cartridge left.
A few minutes afterwards she was riding by Habeebah's side into the town, through the Bab Toot across the Feddan, and up to the courtyard of the Kasbah, which had witnessed the beginning of her own and her father's degradation.
And in the margin was this note, in the colonel's hand: "The colonel commanding doubles Private Perenna's award, but mentions his name in orders and congratulates and thanks him." After the fight of Ber-Réchid, Lieutenant Fardet's detachment being obliged to retreat before a band of four hundred Moors, Private Perenna asked leave to cover the retreat by installing himself in a kasbah.
And this was the way and the word of it: "She is back in the Kasbah!" "The daughter of Ben Oliel? Thank God! But why? Has she recanted?" "She has fallen sick." "And Ben Aboo has sent her to prison?" "He thinks that the physician who will cure her quickest." "Allah save us! The dog of dogs! But God be praised! At least she is saved from the Sultan." "For the present, only for the-present."
This Sidi Tart'ri, who has left such a merry memory around the Kasbah, is no other than our Tartarin, as will be guessed. How could you expect things otherwise? In the lives of heroes, of saints, too, it happens the same way there are moments of blindness, perturbation, and weakness.
Some are pale blue and pinky yellow, like the Kasbah of Tangier, or cream and blue like Salé, but Tangier and Salé, for centuries continuously subject to European influences, have probably borrowed their colors from Genoa and the Italian Riviera.
Asad-ed-Din, the Lion of the Faith, Basha of Algiers, walked in the evening cool in the orchard of the Kasbah upon the heights above the city, and at his side, stepping daintily, came Fenzileh, his wife, the first lady of his hareem, whom eighteen years ago he had carried off in his mighty arms from that little whitewashed village above the Straits of Messina which his followers had raided.
Watching the grey turreted walls of the Kasbah bitten out against a primrose sky, with watch in hand, at last the weekly flash of red, then a puff of brown smoke shot out of the wall, and last of all, a reverberating roar, tossed backwards and forwards among the hills.
Si Maïeddine who had never been in the Hotel de la Kasbah before, and would not have considered it worthy of his patronage if he had not had an object in coming allowed himself to be shown the door of Madame Constant's salon. On the threshold, the landlord retired, and the young man was hardly surprised to find, on entering, that Madame was not in the room.
Such, and worse, and of a kind that bears not to be told, was the conversation after supper of the roysterers in the Kasbah. At every fresh story the laughter became louder, and soon the reserve and dignity of the Moor were left behind him and forgotten.
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