ed."

So, in the little hut, before an improvised altar, they were
married--the camel-driver and the daughter of the Chief of Ouled Nail.

The next morning the caravan took up the march for Biskra.

THE MOTHER OF THE ALMEES

It was the great fast of Rhamadan, and the square of Biskra was crowded
with white-robed men waiting for the sun to set that they might eat.

The rough pavement was dotted with fires over which simmered pots
filled with what only a very jealous God indeed would have called food.
About them were huddled the traders from the bazaars, the camel-drivers
from the desert, the water-carriers from Bab el Derb. Each man held a
cigarette in his left hand and a match in his right. He would smoke
before he ate.

In the long arcades the camels, in from the Soudan, knelt, fasting. An
Arab led a tame lion into the square and the beast held back on his
chain as he passed the flesh-pots, for he, too, was fasting. Crowds of
little children stood about the circle of the fires, fasting. A God was
being placated by the sufferings of His creatures.

There is little twilight in the latitude of Biskra. There is the hard,
white light of the daytime, five minutes of lavender and running
shadows, and then the purple blackness of the night.

The mueddin took his place on the minaret of the mosque. His shadow ran
to the centre of the square and stopped. He cried his admonition, each
white-robed figure bowed to the earth in supplication, a cannon-shot at
the citadel split the hot air, and in an instant the square was dotted
with sparks. Each worshipper had struck his match. The fast was over
until sunrise.

The silence became a Babel. All fell to eating and to talking. A
marabout, graceful as a Greek statue, came out of the mosque and made
his way among the fires. As he passed, the squatting Mussulmans caught
at his robe and kissed it. Mirza, the mother of the Almee girls, her
golden necklaces glinting in the firelight, came walking by. As she
passed the marabout he drew back and held his white burnoose across his
face. She bent her knee and then went on, but as she passed she laughed
and whispered, "Which trade pays best, yours or mine?" and she shook
her necklaces.

"Daughter," said the marabout, "there is but one God."

"Yes," she replied, "but He has many prophets, and, of them all, you
are the most beautiful," and she went on.

An officer of _spahis_ rode in and, stopping his horse before the
arched d