oor of the commandant, stood motionless. The square was filled
with color, with life, with foreignness, with the dancing flames, the
leaping shadows, the fumes of the cook-pots, the odor of Arabian
tobacco, the clamor of all the dialects of North Africa.

A bugle sounded. Out of a side street trotted a cavalcade. The iron
shoes of the horses rang on the pavement, and the steel chains of the
curbs tinkled. The commandant dismounted and gave his bridle to his
orderly.

The commandant walked through the square. He wore a fatigue cap, a
sky-blue blouse, with white loopings, white breeches, tight at the
knee, and patent-leather boots, with box spurs. He walked through the
square slowly, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He was not only the
commandant but he was the commissioner of police. With seventy men he
ruled ten thousand, and he knew his weakness. The knowledge of his
weakness was his strength.

As he walked through the square he met Mirza. He passed her without a
sign of recognition and she, on her part, was looking at the minaret of
the mosque.

In their official capacities they were strangers. On certain occasions,
when the commandant was in _mufti_ they had, at least, passed the time
of day. The commandant walked through the long rows of fires, speaking
to a merchant here, nodding to a date-grower there, casting quick
glances and saying nothing to the spies who, mingling with the people,
sat about the kouss-kouss pots, and reported to the commandant, each
morning, the date set for his throat-cutting. This was many years ago,
before there was a railroad to Biskra.

The commandant, having made the round of the fires, crossed over to his
house under the arcades. He dismissed the sergeant and the guard, and
they rode away to the barracks, the hoof-beats dying in the distance.
The _spahi_ remained, silent, motionless. The commandant was about to
enter his door, when a man sprang from behind one of the pillars of the
arcade and held out to him a paper. The commandant put his hands behind
his back. The _spahi_ edged his horse up closely.

"Who are you?" asked the commandant, in French.

The man shook his head, but still held out the paper.

"Who are you?" asked the commandant again, but now in Arabic.

"I am Ali, the slave of Abdullah," answered the man, "and he sends you
this letter."

The commandant remained motionless. "Will your horse stand, corporal?"
he asked of the _spahi_.

"Perfectly, my colonel."