feel bound to defend Wagner, while you are the zealous
champion of Rossini?"

"I am quite content," answered Servadac, with a smile;
and with another low bow they parted.

The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a
little cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes,
about two miles from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose
more than sixty feet above the sea-level, and the azure waters
of the Mediterranean, as they softly kissed the strand, were tinged
with the reddish hue of the ferriferous rocks that formed its base.
It was the 31st of December. The noontide sun, which usually illuminated
the various projections of the coast with a dazzling brightness,
was hidden by a dense mass of cloud, and the fog, which for some
unaccountable cause, had hung for the last two months over nearly
every region in the world, causing serious interruption to traffic
between continent and continent, spread its dreary veil across
land and sea.

After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended
his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light
four-oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed off
from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying to,
not many cable lengths away.

At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at
a respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse;
the captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant,
well mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was