three o'clock
`` What a country for war ! What a country for defence ! '' he said to himself , as Nevill 's yellow car sped along the levels of narrow ridges that gave , on either hand , vertical views far down to fertile valleys , rushed into clouds of weeping rain , or out into regions of sunlight and rainbows . It was three o'clock when they reached Michélet , but they had not stopped for luncheon , as both were in haste to find Mouni : and Mouni 's village was just beyond Michélet . Since Fort National , they had been in the heart of Grand Kabylia ; and Michélet was even more characteristic of this strange mountain country , so different from transplanted Arabia below . Not an Arab lived here , in the long , straggling town , built on the crest of a high ridge . Not a minaret tower pointed skyward .