 sub-call. Far at the world then, strange fascinating lands beckon us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Port of Call. With every throb of the propellers in the deep Mediterranean blue, we draw near the mysterious north shore of Africa. Already a warm breeze brings us the caresses of this ardent land. Before us, drenched in sunshine, stretches their luring coast of barbering. The three bailed sisters Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco wait to charm us with their sultry beauty. Let us surrender to the exotic spell of the Barbary states. Tunis, all endangling white, like one of her own daughters greets us. White domes and minarets gleam against the blue mountains. More oriental than many cities of the Orient, Tunis lives behind high walls. All about us, as we wander to the torturous streets of the native city, we feel an intense but invisible life. Then suddenly we come upon the long streets, root with curving stone latticework, which housed the famous Tunisian bazaars. Here all is animation and confusion. Hi, what a racket! Better than the guidebook, Tommy. I speak English pretty good. Come on, mister. Okay, George, you can be the guide. Thank you, mister. Come on, you over here. Oh, look, Alice. They're working on brass and copper here. Lovely trays, Missy. All handmade. Cigarette, box, lamp, soil, beauty. Come on, mister. Don't listen. He's your T-Rama. Now here, rugs. Look, pine wood. Oh, they're so soft and heavy. I like those plain colors of brown, white, black. Now, here we turn. Smell. Divine. There. All perfume sellers in this soup, Missy. These high class shops. Perfume soup, very high class. Let me touch your wrist with this jasmine, madame. Oh, exquisite. But such a heavy odor. Here, we sell only the essence, madame. This little vial would make gallons of the perfume you buy in your own marvelous country. You'll have to let me break our rule and buy you some of this, Alice. But first, please accept the cup of coffee, madame. It's delicious. As thick as chocolate. The coffee is ground to powder, madame, and made in each cup. One half cup coffee, one half cup boiling water. Its fragrance is appreciable. Almost a perfume in itself, isn't it, Tommy? It is well to enjoy delightful odors, madame. The prophet himself said that there were two things which rejoiced him particularly. One of them is the society of a beautiful woman. The other is sweet perfume. Look, Alice, there's Parker from the ship. Oh, yeah. Oh, Parker. Parker. Hello, Tommy. Hello, Miss Bennet. Well, I see you've got your sketchbook. Finding anything? Finding anything. I've just seen something wonderful. It's terrific. Oh, you enthusiastic artist. Say, you do look all upset. What is it, a secret? No secret. Just Oolednail. It's what? Never mind. I'll show you. I just left a little Moorish cafe. Perhaps she's still there. Oh, I see. A girl. No, an Oolednail. That's different. Come on. Here we are. I don't mind the smoke and the smell. You'll really see something. Now, Parker, where is this marvel? There she is. Look, she's going to dance. See her? Live and supple as a tiger. She's very young yet, perhaps 14. In six years she'll be fat and horrible, but now. See her huge black liquid eyes outlined with coal. Her blue-black hair, her wild full red mouth. Watch her dance. Watch her. Oh, see her slender fingers tipped with henna, coiling and weaving. See the men watching her. They've forgotten to puff the long tube-nug ears. Their coffee is forgotten. They lean forward, fascinated as her body trembles and shudders. Oh, it's more than a dance. It's poetry. Strange to us, but still, we can feel that its roots lie deep within the fierce, passionate nature of this land. Watch her eyes. Have closed, veiled by her long lashes, slumberously ardent, intense but indifferent, the soul of Barbery. And now we leave the city. Beyond that hill, two lagoons gleam like silver mirrors on green velvet. It is a lonely, deserted spot. A Berber shepherd boy, seated on a vine-grown column of crumbling marble, plays softly upon his flute. And his sheep graze over what was once the greatest city in the world. The home of that power which made Rome tremble, which fought with her the epic battle for world mastery, Carthage. Eight centuries before Christ, just such a Berber lad watched with wondering eyes as a great Turinian galley, her purple sails ablaze with the evening sun, bore up toward the lagoon. Three of the sea, we have come far. This land before us is green and fertile. Here we rest. I shall never return to Tyre. Here shall I view the city far greater than either Tyre or Sidon. Look, in that lagoon will ride our war galleys. There on that proud hill will be my palace. Dido, great princess, the ruler of this region desires to speak with you. Very well. I salute you, majesty. And your name? King Eobus, most beautiful Dido. We are not unrelated, for my ancestors came from Tyre even as you were. That was four centuries ago, and four centuries hence men will still be dreaming of your beauty. You are most courteous, King Eobus. But I do not come here to seek compliments. No? Then what? Love, perhaps? Or if it is love, you have... Oh, no, not love. I wish to buy some of your land. Ah, you of Anisha are always traitors. That is our reputation, Eobus. But come, will you sell me land? Yes, yes, of course. Yes, of course, whatever you wish. I wish very little. How much then? Only as much as can be covered by the hide of a bull. Princess, what are you saying? This fight for your great city. Be quiet fools, the Phoenicians are traitors. Well? So little, a mere patch. It's senseless. Come to business. What is your price? Why, there is no price. Take it. It's not worth mentioning. No, no, Eobus. This is business. Name a price. I have a deed of sale already drawn up. What charming nonsense. But if such is your whim, let us say one small silver piece. Very well. Here, taking Eobus' small silver piece. Now, honoured sir, please sign the agreement. Delightful fantasy. It is well. Here you are, Princess. And now, will you dine with me? Later, perhaps. For the moment, please excuse me. I have other business to attend to. Are you Phoenicians in your business? Then farewell until later. Farewell, great King Eobus. Princess, are you mad? You need a thousand acres and you buy two square yards. Silence, Myrta. Bring me that bull's hide. Yes, Princess. Myrta, take the sharpest knife you can find. A very small one. This one will do. Now take the skin. Start cutting it. Start at extreme outer edge. Cut it in a tiny strip. No, finer than that. Still finer. That's better. It must be no wider than a thread of silk. Ah, good. That's it. Keep going round and round. One tiny unbroken thread. Now do you see? Oh, Princess, what an idea. Stop laughing. You'll make the thread too wide. With the skin of this bull, I'll cover half of Eobus' puny kingdom. And all for one small silver piece. Thus was the site of cottage purchased. The city grew rapidly. The palaces multiplied upon the hill. The amphitheaters, the marketplaces, the temples, the villas spread over the fertile plain. The power of cottage spread over the world. Her colonies flourished as far as Wales and Cornwall. She conquered Spain nearly to the Pyrenees. She held most of the Mediterranean islands. Her navy held such insolence way that the Mediterranean was called a Carthaginian lake. The Carthaginians became the world's richest people. And seated in the shade of the city's 23-mile wall, the Berber shepherd boy watched his flock with indolent eyes and drew plaintive songs from his flute. Then in the third century before Christ, came the inevitable struggle between luxurious Semitic cottage and vigorous imperious Arian Rome. It was the struggle which decided the future course of the world's civilization. Hannibal, bowed to hatred of Rome since his infancy, makes his astonishing march through Spain across France and with 30,000 men and 40 war elephants, descends the Alps like an avalanche to terrorize Italy. But Rome, on the verge of disaster, produced a general who proved a match for Hannibal. Cornelius Publius Scipio, surnamed the African, carried the wall into Carthaginian territory. Hannibal was defeated in exile from Carthage. Such was the whim of Rome that Scipio too bound himself in exile. The two heroes meet far from their native countries. Is it not strange, Hannibal, that we too old enemies should be sitting here in the sun, drinking wine together? No stranger than that we should be exiles Scipio, you who saved Rome, and I who spent my life in the service of Carthage. The ingratitude of republics must baffle even the gods themselves. But tell me, Hannibal, of all the great generals, whom do you consider the greatest? Alexander, beyond doubt. Because with very small armies, he defeated very large ones, and with his small armies conquered the world. Yes, but after Alexander then. Well, I should say Pyrrhus, and as much as he was the first to organize a camp properly. Well then, after Alexander and Pyrrhus whom would you name? After them? Myself? Well, but tell me, where would you place yourself had you conquered me? And I conquered you, Scipio. I would place myself above Pyrrhus, and above Alexander, and above every other general who ever lived. But even after these two great actors in the drama of empire had disappeared, this struggle went on, for it was a battle to the death. Cato, with the Roman senate, demanded the complete extermination of Carthage. And in 146 before Christ, Rome at last saw her rival prostrate at her feet. The survivors of the sack of Carthage will be sold into slavery. The city of Carthage will be totally destroyed. The very ruins will be set afire until there remains nothing that can be recognized as having one sheltered man, and the guards of Rome will blast whomsoever attempts to build another city on that accursed spot. Carthage is wiped out. Carthago de later est. Slowly trees and vines covered the scarred remains of what had been Carthage. The centuries pass. The year 630 of the Christian era. Mohammed enters Mecca. His triumph prepares the wave of conquest, which is to carry the green banners of the prophet like wildfire across Barbra. Allah Akbar! Take the Quran in one hand, the cemetery in the other. Kill the idolaters whenever you shall find them. But our enemies are many, Mohammed. And we are few. No matter. For Allah is with us. But if we perish in the cause, what will be our reward? Paradise. To him who dies in the holy war, Paradise is certain. What will we find in Paradise? There you will find cool gardens, fragrance shade, the song of birds, and the splashing of crystal fountains. There will be fruits without blemish, wine which does not cloy however much you drink. There you will find soft-eyed maidens, ever young and fresh, ever eager to delight you. They are so beautiful that should one of them look down from heaven at midnight, the whole world would be illuminated as though the sun were shining. Exterminate the idolaters. No God but Allah. And Mohammed is his prophet. And from far off Arabia comes sweeping the fanatical torrent of the Mohammedans, pushing all in their path. To conquer the Tunisia. Of Algeria. Of Morocco. We have ridden to the west until there is no longer earth to conquer beneath our horses feet. We have reached the great ocean. My horse stands in its salt waves up to his belly. Could he still advance? I would carry the word of the prophet to whatever people live beyond this ocean. Thus was Barbaric converted by the sword to the faith of Islam. And thus it is that when we visit Algiers today, we hear from the minaret of the great mosque of Jama Al-Kabir the Moazans call, proclaiming the glory of Allah and of Mohammed his prophet. This same call to prayer fell from the evening sky as the long swift sinister galleys slipped in and out of the old port of Algiers. For by the end of the 15th century, Algiers had become the stronghold of the dreaded Barbaric horses. The pirates who long terrorized the coasts of Europe. From square watchtowers, anxious satanels scrutinized the blue Mediterranean for the first glimpse of the sea rovers Latin sales. The villagers fled to the hills in terror, hoping to escape the fate of the pirates captives. For the women, death for a shameful captivity in the harems of Islam. For the men, slavery in the chains of a galley oarsman. AD 1577. The galleys returning from a raid approached the port of Algiers. I can't row any longer. Try. Keep going. We're almost in. I can't, Leo. My arms are burning up. My heart is bursting. Just follow the or black and forth. Don't let them see your fainting. They'll flog you. You'll get used to the lash, newcomer. Yes. Are you a Spaniard? Yes. Miguel de Cervantes is my name. Our soldier. I was wounded at Lepanto with Don Juan of Austria. I was captured off my say with my brother. But now what am I? Still one can dream even at the oars. Even in prison. I dream of Spain. Of the ransom which does not come. End of a book. Spain. A ransom. Yes. But a book. What book? It has not been written yet. I shall write it. If I live. It is the requiem of the age of chivalry. I shall call it Don Quixote. For chivalry is dead. There is no room for it in our modern world. Perhaps. Thank God we're in port. We can stop rowing. Give your dogs his name Cervantes. Aye, captain. What is it? Your ransom money has arrived. The ransom money? How much did this end? A hundred and fifty gold dockets. Only a hundred and fifty? Oh, that's not enough. Insolent. It's enough to ransom any one man in this galley. I'm sorry. Pardon. There's a mistake. You see, I misunderstood. I am not Cervantes. What? Pretending stupid. No, no. No, I am not. That is Cervantes. Forward there. The fifth bench. Ask him. He will say yes. Kill the guy. Well. Your name is Cervantes, isn't it? Yes. And that other man? There was only enough ransom money for one. That other man is Rodrigo, my brother. And you say that chivalry is dead, Cervantes? Not so long as God makes men like you. The Barbary pirates continued their profitable reign of terror for three centuries after Cervantes was finally ransomed. Demand for tribute from American shipping caused the United States to declare war on Tunis in 1815. Commodore Stephen Decatur inspired a wholesome respect for the stars and stripes in the Bay of Tunis by well-directed gunfire. Then, in 1829, the day of Algiers, Hussien, slapped the face of the French consul. That ill-considered act marked the end of the pirate's insolent domination. Red-prousered French battalion soon landed, and in five days of fighting brought Algiers to her knees. The Barbary rovers passed from existence. Soon, the French tricolor floated over Tunisia and Algeria. Morocco, farthest west and most savage of the North African states, was the last to accept a French protectorate. It was only in 1912 that the French consul, Cervantes, and Algeria, passed protectorate. It was only in 1912 that General Lyotet commenced an earnest, the work of pacification. It was with grave fears for the future of his colony, but he learned of the outbreak of the Great War. Rabat, Morocco, 1914. Dispatches from Paris for General Lyotet. Merci, Mélanie. Ah, non du chien. Good news. I don't know. And returned to Paris to take the portfolio of Minister of War. Oh, congratulations. This is more serious. I must order practically all our troops out of Morocco. They are needed at the front. And what will be left for us here after the war with no troops to hold Morocco for us? And there's one thing I can try at least. Call all the travel chiefs you can reach, all the cailles of the south. I must see them. And into the general's council chamber, trooped the Moroccan chieftains. Tall, live, brown-skinned men. Proud, imperious leaders of the desert. Absolute rulers of the mountains. They were as untamed and as untapable as the chill winds of the atlas. General Lyotet faces them. Guides, fascers, shakes. You are men and not children. Therefore I shall talk to you as men and warriors. My country is at war. And I must leave you. Guides of France are very powerful, so I must take my friends troops with me. Our enemies will come and tell you to revolt against France. I shall not charm you with sentimental words. I shall only ask you to remember Morocco before the French came to help you. If our enemies take over Morocco, you'll be flogged, imprisoned, hanged. Our enemies have done it in other places. They will do the same here. The French have respected your valour, your customs, your religion. The others will not do so. Your reason will tell you that the best thing for Morocco is to remain faithful to France. General Lyotet was successful. The world witnessed the strange phenomenon of a wild, unsubdued country suddenly freed from the control of her administrators, still remaining faithful to them. Morocco did more. She sent two divisions to France where they covered themselves with glory. When General, now Marshal Lyotet, returned to his beloved Morocco in 1917, progress was rapid. Great engineering works were undertaken. Casablanca became a great port. Rabat, the seat of the French protectorate, was beautified. Railroads were built. Highways traced far into the south. The work still goes on. And in the forefront of it all, can ever be found the men of the far-famed French foreign legion. Whenever there is serious trouble, whenever there are almost superhuman obstacles to overcome, there is but one order. Send the legion! Because the legion can do the job. The legion has never betrayed its proud device, Honoré fidélité. And now our ship steams out of the harbor of Casablanca and into the Atlantic, homeward bound. We look back with minds of blur with unforgettable sights, sounds and color to the purple coast dropping behind and still a thrill to the exotic beauty of the strange world we are leaving with the weird call and the euasen still echoing in our memory. We bid farewell to the Barbary States. We invite you to join us again next week at this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.