appealing look to the moollah who was with us.  The moollah, however, had a tale of his own to tell, and seemed to have no great respect for the superstitious fears of his patron.  “The name of the cavern is Yeerm[=a]lik, and the fact of the matter is this,” said he, settling himself in his saddle for a long story.  “In the time of the invasion, six hundred years ago, of Genghis Kh[=a]n the Tartar, seven hundred men of the Huzareh tribe, with their wives and families and a stock of provisions, took possession of this cavern, hoping to escape the fury of the ruthless invader, and never stirred beyond its mouth.  But the cruel Genghis, after wasting the country with fire and sword, set on foot a strict search for such of the unfortunate inhabitants as had fled from his tyranny.  His bloodhounds soon scented the wretched Huzarehs, and a strong party was sent to drive them from their place of refuge.  But despair lent to the besieged a courage which was not the characteristic of their tribe, and knowing that, if taken alive, a lingering torture and cruel death would be their fate, they resolved to make good their defence at every hazard.  The mouth of the cave was small, and no sooner did the invaders rush in than they were cut down by those inside; in vain were more men thrust in to take the place of those slain; the advantages of position were too great, and they were obliged at length to desist.  But Genghis was not to be balked of his victims, and his devilish cunning suggested the expedient of lighting straw at the mouth of the cave to suffocate those inside, but the size of the place prevented his plan from taking effect; so he at last commanded a large fragment of rock to be rolled to the mouth of the cavern, adding another as a support, and having thus effectually barred their exit, he cruelly abandoned them to their fate.  Of course the whole party suffered a miserable death, and it is perhaps the spirits of the murdered men that, wandering about and haunting it, have given a suspicious character to the place; but,” concluded he, rather dogmatically, “the devil does not live there now—­it is too cold!!"[*]

[* Note:  Those who have been familiarized to the atrocities perpetrated by the French in Algeria will not feel the horror that the moollah’s tale would otherwise have excited; the similarity of these outrages to humanity is so striking, that I quote a passage extracted from the French paper, “The National,” which will speak for itself.

“The National gives a frightful picture of Marshal Bugeaud’s doings in Africa.  According to the accounts published by this paper, fifty prisoners were one day shot in cold blood—­thirteen villages burned—­the Dahra massacre acted over again, for it appears that a portion of a tribe having hid themselves in a cave, the same means were resorted to exactly as those employed by Colonel Pelissier, and all smoked and baked to death.  The Marshal himself is the author of all these horrors—­his last triumph was a monster razzia—­he has ordered the most strict secresy as to his barbarous proceedings; and the writer of the accounts calls him a second Attila, for he puts all to the sword and fire, sparing only women and children.”]