The usual features of an Algerian hunt succeed.  A phantom-like silence pervades the column of galloping horsemen up to the moment when the boar is beaten up.  Then, with a formidable clamor of “Haou! haou!” from his pursuers, the tusked monster bursts through the tamarinds and dwarf palms:  after a long chase he suddenly stops, and then his form instantly disappears under the gigantic African hounds who leap upon him and hang at his ears.  A huntsman dismounts and stabs his shoulder with the yataghan.  After a rest the chase is resumed, but this time under the form of a hawking-party.

Only the djouads and marabouts—­that is to say, the religious or secular nobles—­have the privilege of hunting with the falcon.  The patrician bird, taken by the agha from the shoulder of his hawk-bearer, is about as large as a pigeon, the head small, beak short and strong, the claws yellow and armed with sharp talons.  The bird rides upon his master’s leather glove until a hare is started:  then, unhooded and released, his first proceeding is to dart into the zenith as if commissioned to make a hole in the sky.  No fear, however, that the poor panting quarry is lost for an instant from the vision of that infallible eye, which follows far aloft in the blue, invisible and fatal.  Soon the cruel bird drops like an aerolite, and, as the deed is explained to us, doubles up his yellow hand into a fist, and deals the animal a sharp blow on the skull.  Directly, as the horsemen approach, he is found with his obtuse head bent over his prey, digging out its eyes by the spoonful.

By noontide the troop is naturally famished.  A luncheon, has, however, been prepared by the thoughtfulness of the agha.  Riding up to a tent which appears as by magic in the wilderness, the provisions for a sumptuous repast are discovered.  Two fires are burning in the open air, and are surrounded by a host of servants or followers.  The Roumi and their host adjourn from the neighborhood of the preparations, and are served under a plane tree beautiful as that whose limbs were hung by Xerxes with bracelets.  A soup, absolutely set on fire with red pepper, introduces the repast:  pancakes follow, and various meats smothered with eggs or onions.  Then two half-naked cooks stagger up bearing on a wooden dish, under a gold-bordered napkin, a sheep roasted entire and still impaled with the spit.  The chief cook takes hold of the skewer and draws it violently toward himself, applying a smart stroke with his naked heel to the tail of the creature—­a contact which would seem almost as trying as the ancient ordeal of the ploughshares, or as the red-hot horseshoes which the fire-eating marabouts are accustomed to dance upon.  The Roumi travelers taste the succulent viand, taste again, eat till ashamed, and are ready to declare that never was mutton properly dressed before.  If possible, they vow to introduce the undissected roast, the bonfire, the spit and the cook with imperturbable heel into the cuisine of less-favored lands more distant from the sun.