He told me that he was on the way to El Arba, a long
journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that his business was
to convey there the man at the end of the cord.

"But what is he? A prisoner?" I asked.

"A murderer, monsieur," the Spahi replied calmly.

I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with
one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent.

"Does he understand French?"

"A little."

"And he committed murder?"

"At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man's throat."

"Why?"

"I don't know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis
in the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in
prison."

"And why are you taking him to El Arba?"

"He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live
any more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a
dancing-girl, Aichouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the cafe by
the lake. He wanted even to stay in prison, if only he might remain in
Tunis. He never saw her, but he was in the same town, you understand.
That was something. All the first day he ran behind my horse cursing me
for taking him away. But now the sand has got into his throat. He is so
tired that he can scarcely run. So he does not curse any more."

The captive giant smiled at me again. Despite his great stature, his
powerful and impressive features, he looked, I thought, very gentle and
submissive. The story of his passion for Aichouch, his desire to be near
her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him sincerely.

"What is his name?" I asked.

"M'hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said."

I was weary with riding and wanted to stretch my legs, and see what
was to be seen of Sidi-Massarli ere evening quite closed in, so at this
point I lit a cigar and prepared to stroll off.

"Monsieur is going for a walk?" asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my
cigar.

"Yes."

"I will accompany monsieur."

"Or monsieur's cigar-case," I thought.

"But that poor fellow," I said, pointing to the murderer. "He is tired
out."

"That doesn't matter. He will come with us."

The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over the
sand behind us like some exhausted animal.

By this time twilight was falling over the Sahara, a grim twilight, cold
and grey. The wind was rising. In the night it blew half a gale, but
at this hour there was only a strong breeze in which minute sand-grains
dan