arest oasis, Sidi-Okba,
and so on?"

I nodded. I saw I was in for another tale, and anticipated some history
of shooting exploits under the salt mountain of El Outaya.

"Well," he continued, "I know the Sahara pretty fairly, and about the
oddest thing I ever could believe in I heard of and believed in there."

"Something about gazelle?" I queried.

"Gazelle? No--a woman!" he replied..

As he spoke a Moor glided out of the windy darkness, and threw an armful
of dry reeds on the fire. The flames flared up vehemently, and I saw
that the face of my companion had changed. The hardness of it was
smoothed away. Some memory, that held its romance, sat with him.

"A woman," he repeated, knocking the ashes out of his pipe almost
sentimentally--"more than that, a French woman of Paris, with the
nameless charm, the _chic_, the---- But I'll tell you. Some years ago
three Parisians--a man, his wife, and her unmarried sister, a girl of
eighteen, with an angel and a devil in her dark beauty--came to a great
resolve. They decided that they were tired of the Francais, sick of the
Bois, bored to death with the boulevards, that they wanted to see for
themselves the famous French colonies which were for ever being talked
about in the Chamber. They determined to travel. No sooner was
the determination come to than they were off. Hotel des Colonies,
Marseilles; steamboat, _Le General Chanzy_; five o'clock on a splendid,
sunny afternoon--Algiers, with its terraces, its white villas, its
palms, trees, and its Spahis!"

"But----" I began.

He foresaw my objection.

"There were Spahis, and that's a point of my story. Some fete was on
in the town while our Parisians were there. All the African troops were
out--Zouaves, chasseurs, tirailleurs. The Governor went in procession
to perform some ceremony, and in front of his carriage rode sixteen
Spahis--probably got in from that desert camp of theirs near El Outaya.
All this was long before the Tsar visited Paris, and our Parisians had
never before seen the dashing Spahis, had only heard of them, of their
magnificent horses, their turbans and flowing Arab robes, their gorgeous
figures, lustrous eyes, and diabolic horsemanship. You know how they
ride? No cavalry to touch them--not even the Cossacks! Well, our
French friends were struck. The unmarried sister, more especially, was
_bouleversee_ by these glorious demons. As they caracoled beneath the
balcony on which she was leaning she clapped