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+ <head>
+ <title>
+ The Desert Drum, by Robert Hichens
+ </title>
+ <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+
+ body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+ P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+ H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+ hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+ .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
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+ .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+ .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+ .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;}
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+ .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
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+ <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Desert Drum, by Robert Hichens
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Desert Drum
+ 1905
+
+Author: Robert Hichens
+
+Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23417]
+Last Updated: December 17, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESERT DRUM ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+ <div style="height: 8em;">
+ <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+ </div>
+ <h1>
+ THE DESERT DRUM
+ </h1>
+ <h2>
+ By Robert Hichens
+ </h2>
+ <p>
+ <br />
+ </p>
+ <h3>
+ Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers
+ </h3>
+ <h4>
+ Copyright, 1905
+ </h4>
+ <p>
+ <br /> <br />
+ </p>
+ <hr />
+ <p>
+ <br /> <br />
+ </p>
+ <h2>
+ Contents
+ </h2>
+ <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
+ <tr>
+ <td>
+ <p class="toc">
+ <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
+ </p>
+ <p class="toc">
+ <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a>
+ </p>
+ </td>
+ </tr>
+ </table>
+ <p>
+ <br /> <br />
+ </p>
+ <hr />
+ <p>
+ <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
+ <!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
+ </p>
+ <div style="height: 4em;">
+ <br /><br /><br /><br />
+ </div>
+ <h2>
+ I
+ </h2>
+ <p>
+ I am not naturally superstitious. The Saharaman is. He has many strange
+ beliefs. When one is at close quarters with him, sees him day by day in
+ his home, the great desert, listens to his dramatic tales of desert
+ lights, visions, sounds, one&rsquo;s common-sense is apt to be shaken on its
+ throne. Perhaps it is the influence of the solitude and the wide spaces,
+ of those far horizons of the Sahara where the blue deepens along the edge
+ of the world, that turns even a European mind to an Eastern credulity. Who
+ can tell? The truth is that in the Sahara one can believe what one cannot
+ believe in London. And sometimes circumstances&mdash;chance if you like to
+ call it so&mdash;steps in, and seems to say, &ldquo;Your belief is well
+ founded.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Of all the desert superstitions the one which appealed most to my
+ imagination was the superstition of the desert drum. The Sahara-man
+ declares that far away from the abodes of men and desert cities, among the
+ everlasting sand dunes, the sharp beating, or dull, distant rolling of a
+ drum sometimes breaks upon the ears of travellers voyaging through the
+ desolation. They look around, they stare across the flats, they see
+ nothing. But the mysterious music continues. Then, if they be Sahara-bred,
+ they commend themselves to Allah, for they know that some terrible
+ disaster is at hand, that one of them at least is doomed to die.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Often had I heard stories of the catastrophes which were immediately
+ preceded by the beating of the desert drum. One night in the Sahara I was
+ a witness to one which I have never been able to forget.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ On an evening of spring, accompanied by a young Arab and a negro, I rode
+ slowly down a low hill of the Sahara, and saw in the sandy cup at my feet
+ the tiny collection of hovels called Sidi-Massarli. I had been in the
+ saddle since dawn, riding over desolate tracks in the heart of the desert.
+ I was hungry, tired, and felt almost like a man hypnotised. The strong
+ air, the clear sky, the everlasting flats devoid of vegetation, empty of
+ humanity, the monotonous motion of my slowly cantering horse&mdash;all
+ these things combined to dull my brain and to throw me into a peculiar
+ condition akin to the condition of a man in a trance. At Sidi-Massarli I
+ was to pass the night. I drew rein and looked down on it with lack-lustre
+ eyes.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I saw a small group of palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked brown
+ earth, in which were embedded many white bones of dead camels. Bleached,
+ grinning heads of camels hung from more than one of the trees, with
+ strings of red pepper and round stones. Beyond the wall of this palm
+ garden, at whose foot was a furrow full of stagnant brownish-yellow water,
+ lay a handful of wretched earthen hovels, with flat roofs of palmwood and
+ low wooden doors. To be exact, I think there were five of them. The Bordj,
+ or Travellers&rsquo; House, at which I was to be accommodated for the night,
+ stood alone near a tiny source at the edge of a large sand dune, and was a
+ small, earth-coloured building with a pink tiled roof, minute arched
+ windows, and an open stable for the horses and mules. All round the desert
+ rose in humps of sand, melting into stony ground where the saltpetre lay
+ like snow on a wintry world. There were but few signs of life in this
+ place; some stockings drying on the wall of a ruined Arab café, some kids
+ frisking by a heap of sacks, a few pigeons circling about a low square
+ watch-tower, a black donkey brooding on a dust heap. There were some signs
+ of death; carcasses of camels stretched here and there in frantic and
+ fantastic postures, some bleached and smooth, others red and horribly
+ odorous.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The wind blew round this hospitable township of the Sahara, and the yellow
+ light of evening began to glow above it. It seemed to me at that moment
+ the dreariest place in the dreariest dream man had ever had.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Suddenly my horse neighed loudly. Beyond the village, on the opposite
+ hill, a white Arab charger caracoled, a red cloak gleamed. Another
+ traveller was coming in to his night&rsquo;s rest, and he was a Spahi. I could
+ almost fancy I heard the jingle of his spurs and accoutrements, the
+ creaking of his tall red boots against his high peaked saddle. As he rode
+ down towards the Bordj&mdash;by this time, I, too, was on my way&mdash;I
+ saw that a long cord hung from his saddle-bow, and that at the end of this
+ cord was a man, trotting heavily in the heavy sand like a creature dogged
+ and weary. We came in to Sidi-Massarli simultaneously, and pulled up at
+ the same moment before the arched door of the Bordj, from which glided a
+ one-eyed swarthy Arab, staring fixedly at me. This was the official keeper
+ of the house. In one hand he held the huge door key, and as I swung myself
+ heavily on the ground I heard him, in Arabic, asking my Arab attendant,
+ D&rsquo;oud, who I was and where I hailed from.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ But such attention as I had to bestow on anything just then was given to
+ the Spahi and his companion. The Spahi was a magnificent man, tall, lithe,
+ bronze-brown and muscular. He looked about thirty-four, and had the face
+ of a desert eagle. His piercing black eyes stared me calmly out of
+ countenance, and he sat on his spirited horse like a statue, waiting
+ patiently till the guardian of the Bordj was ready to attend to him. My
+ gaze travelled from him along the cord to the man at its end, and rested
+ there with pity. He, too, was a fine specimen of humanity, a giant, nobly
+ built, with a superbly handsome face, something like that of an undefaced
+ Sphinx. Broad brows sheltered his enormous eyes. His rather thick lips
+ were parted to allow his panting breath to escape, and his dark, almost
+ black skin, was covered with sweat. Drops of sweat coursed down his bare
+ arms and his mighty chest, from which his ragged burnous was drawn
+ partially away. He was evidently of mixed Arab and negro parentage. As he
+ stood by the Spain&rsquo;s horse, gasping, his face expressed nothing but
+ physical exhaustion. His eyes were bent on the sand, and his arms hung
+ down loosely at his sides. While I looked at him the Spahi suddenly gave a
+ tug at the cord to which he was attached. He moved in nearer to the horse,
+ glanced up at me, held out his hand, and said in a low, musical voice,
+ speaking Arabic:
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Give me a cigarette, Sidi.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically handing
+ another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night&rsquo;s acquaintance, an
+ acquaintance which I shall not easily forget.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly formed.
+ The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my two
+ attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I carried
+ with me on a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi, who spoke
+ French fairly well. 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.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;But what is he? A prisoner?&rdquo; I asked.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;A murderer, monsieur,&rdquo; the Spahi replied calmly.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ 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.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Does he understand French?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;A little.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;And he committed murder?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man&rsquo;s throat.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I don&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;And why are you taking him to El Arba?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;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, Aïchouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the café 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.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ 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 Aïchouch, his desire to be near
+ her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him sincerely.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo; I asked.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;M&rsquo;hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ 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.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur is going for a walk?&rdquo; asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my
+ cigar.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I will accompany monsieur.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Or monsieur&rsquo;s cigar-case,&rdquo; I thought.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;But that poor fellow,&rdquo; I said, pointing to the murderer. &ldquo;He is tired
+ out.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter. He will come with us.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over the
+ sand behind us like some exhausted animal.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ 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
+ danced. The murderer&rsquo;s feet were shod with patched slippers, and the sound
+ of these slippers shuffling close behind me made me feel faintly uneasy.
+ The Spahi stared at my cigar so persistently that I was obliged to offer
+ him one. When I had done so, and he had loftily accepted it, I half turned
+ towards the murderer. The Spahi scowled ferociously. I put my cigar-case
+ back into my pocket. It is unwise to offend the powerful if your sympathy
+ lies with the powerless.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Sidi-Massarli was soon explored. It contained a Café Maure, into which I
+ peered. In the coffee niche the embers glowed. One or two ragged Arabs sat
+ hunched upon the earthen divans playing a game of cards. At least I should
+ have my coffee after my tinned dinner. I was turning to go back to the
+ Bordj when the extreme desolation of the desert around, now fading in the
+ shadows of a moonless night, stirred me to a desire. Sidi-Massarli was
+ dreary enough. Still it contained habitations, men. I wished to feel the
+ blank, wild emptiness of this world, so far from the world of civilisation
+ from which I had come, to feel it with intensity. I resolved to mount the
+ low hill down which I had seen the Spahi ride, to descend into the fold of
+ desert beyond it, to pause there a moment, out of sight of the hamlet,
+ listen to the breeze, look at the darkening sky, feel the sand-grains
+ stinging my cheeks, shake hands with the Sahara.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ But I wanted to shake hands quite alone. I therefore suggested to the
+ Spahi that he should remain in the Café Maure and drink a cup of coffee at
+ my expense.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;And where is monsieur going?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Only over that hill for a moment.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I will accompany monsieur.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;But you must be tired. A cup of&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I will accompany monsieur.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ In Arab fashion he was establishing a claim upon me. On the morrow, when I
+ was about to depart, he would point out that he had guided me round
+ Sidi-Massarli, had guarded me in my dangerous expedition beyond its
+ fascinations, despite his weariness and hunger. I knew how useless it is
+ to contend with these polite and persistent rascals, so I said no more.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ In a few minutes the Spahi, the murderer and I stood in the fold of the
+ sand dunes, and Sidi-Massarli was blotted from our sight.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
+ <!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
+ </p>
+ <div style="height: 4em;">
+ <br /><br /><br /><br />
+ </div>
+ <h2>
+ II
+ </h2>
+ <p>
+ The desolation here was complete. All around us lay the dunes, monstrous
+ as still leviathans. Here and there, between their strange, suggestive
+ shapes, under the dark sky one could see the ghastly whiteness of the
+ saltpetre in the arid plains beyond, where the low bushes bent in the
+ chilly breeze. I thought of London&mdash;only a few days&rsquo; journey from me&mdash;revelled
+ for a moment in my situation, which, contrary to my expectation, was
+ rather emphasised by the presence of my companions. The gorgeous Spahi,
+ with his scarlet cloak and hood, his musket and sword, his high red
+ leggings, the ragged, sweating captive in his patched burnous, ex-butcher
+ looking, despite his cord emblem of bondage, like reigning Emperor&mdash;they
+ were appropriate figures in this desert place. I had just thought this,
+ and was regarding my Sackville Street suit with disgust, when a low,
+ distinct and near sound suddenly rose from behind a sand dune on my left.
+ It was exactly like the dull beating of a tom-tom. The silence preceding
+ it had been intense, for the breeze was as yet too light to make more than
+ the faintest sighing music, and in the gathering darkness this abrupt and
+ gloomy noise produced, I supposed, by some hidden nomad, made a very
+ unpleasant, even sinister impression upon me. Instinctively I put my hand
+ on the revolver which was slung at my side in a pouch of gazelle skin. As
+ I did so, I saw the Spahi turn sharply and gaze in the direction of the
+ sound, lifting one hand to his ear.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The low thunder of the instrument, beaten rhythmically and persistently,
+ grew louder and was evidently drawing nearer. The musician must be
+ climbing up the far side of the dune. I had swung round to face him, and
+ expected every moment to see some wild figure appear upon the summit,
+ defining itself against the cold and gloomy sky. But none came.
+ Nevertheless, the noise increased till it was a roar, drew near till it
+ was actually upon us. It seemed to me that I heard the sticks striking the
+ hard, stretched skin furiously, as if some phantom drummer were stealthily
+ encircling us, catching us in a net, a trap of horrible, vicious uproar.
+ Instinctively I threw a questioning, perhaps an appealing, glance at my
+ two companions. The Spahi had dropped his hand from his ear. He stood
+ upright, as if at attention on the parade-ground of Biskra. His face was
+ set&mdash;afterwards I told myself it was fatalistic. The murderer, on the
+ other hand, was smiling. I remember the gleam of his big white teeth. Why
+ was he smiling? While I asked myself the question the roar of the tom-tom
+ grew gradually less, as if the man beating it were walking rapidly away
+ from us in the direction of Sidi-Massarli. None of us said a word till
+ only a faint, heavy throbbing, like the beating of a heart, I fancied, was
+ audible in the darkness. Then I spoke, as silence fell.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur, it is no one.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The Spain&rsquo;s voice was dry and soft.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur, it is the desert drum. There will be death in Sidi-Massarli
+ to-night.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I felt myself turn cold. He spoke with such conviction. The murderer was
+ still smiling, and I noticed that the tired look had left him. He stood in
+ an alert attitude, and the sweat had dried on his broad forehead.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;The desert drum?&rdquo; I repeated.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur has not heard of it?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Yes, I have heard&mdash;but&mdash;it can&rsquo;t be. There must have been
+ someone.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I looked at the white teeth of the murderer, white as the saltpetre which
+ makes winter in the desert.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I must get back to the Bordj,&rdquo; I said abruptly.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I will accompany monsieur.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The old formula, and this time the voice which spoke it sounded natural.
+ We went forward together. I walked very fast. I wanted to catch up that
+ music, to prove to myself that it was produced by human fists and sticks
+ upon an instrument which, however barbarous, had been fashioned by human
+ hands. But we entered Sidi-Massarli in a silence, only broken by the
+ soughing of the wind and the heavy shuffle of the murderer&rsquo;s feet upon the
+ sand.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Outside the Café Maure D&rsquo;oud was standing with the white hood of his
+ burnous drawn forward over his head; one or two ragged Arabs stood with
+ him.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve been playing tom-toms in the village, D&rsquo;oud?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur asks if&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Tom-toms. Can&rsquo;t you understand?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Ah! Monsieur is laughing. Tom-toms here! And dancers, too, perhaps!
+ Monsieur thinks there are dancers? Fatma and Khadija and Aïchouch&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I glanced quickly at the murderer as D&rsquo;oud mentioned the last name, a name
+ common to many dancers of the East. I think I expected to see upon his
+ face some tremendous expression, a revelation of the soul of the man who
+ had run for one whole day through the sand behind the Spahi&rsquo;s horse,
+ cursing at the end of the cord which dragged him onward from Tunis.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ But I only met the gentle smile of eyes so tender, so submissive, that
+ they were as the eyes of a woman who had always been a slave, while the
+ ragged Arabs laughed at the idea of tom-toms in Sidi-Massarli.
+ </p>
+ <hr />
+ <p>
+ When we reached the Bordj I found that it contained only one good-sized
+ room, quite bare, with stone floor and white walls. Here, upon a deal
+ table, was set forth my repast; the foods I had brought with me, and a red
+ Arab soup served in a gigantic bowl of palmwood. A candle guttered in the
+ glass neck of a bottle, and upon the floor were already spread my gaudy
+ striped quilt, my pillow, and my blanket. The Spahi surveyed these
+ preparations with a deliberate greediness, lingering in the narrow
+ doorway.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I sat down on a bench before the table. My attendants were to eat at the
+ Café Maure.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Where are you going to sleep?&rdquo; I asked of D&rsquo;oud.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;At the Café Maure, monsieur, if monsieur is not afraid to sleep alone.
+ Here is the key. Monsieur can lock himself in. The door is strong.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I was helping myself to the soup. The rising wind blew up the skirts of
+ the Spahi&rsquo;s scarlet robe. In the wind&mdash;was it imagination?&mdash;I
+ seemed to hear some thin, passing echoes of a tom-tom&rsquo;s beat.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; I said to the Spahi. &ldquo;You shall sup with me to-night, and&mdash;and
+ you shall sleep here with me.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ D&rsquo;oud&rsquo;s expressive face became sinister. Arabs are almost as jealous as
+ they are vain.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;But, monsieur, he will sleep in the Café Maure. If monsieur wishes for a
+ companion, I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; I repeated to the Spahi. &ldquo;You can sleep here to-night.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The Spahi stepped over the lintel with a jingling of spurs, a rattling of
+ accoutrements. The murderer stepped in softly after him, drawn by the
+ cord. D&rsquo;oud began to look as grim as death. He made a ferocious gesture
+ towards the murderer.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;And that man? Monsieur wishes to sleep in the same room with him?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I heard the sound of the tom-tom above the wail of the wind.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I said.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Why did I wish it? I hardly know. I had no fear for, no desire to protect
+ myself. But I remembered the smile I had seen, the Spahi&rsquo;s saying, &ldquo;There
+ will be death in Sidi-Massarli to-night,&rdquo; and I was resolved that the
+ three men who had heard the desert drum together should not be parted till
+ the morning. D&rsquo;oud said no more. He waited upon me with his usual
+ diligence, but I could see that he was furiously angry. The Spahi ate
+ ravenously. So did the murderer, who more than once, however, seemed to be
+ dropping to sleep over his food. He was apparently dead tired. As the wind
+ was now become very violent I did not feel disposed to stir out again, and
+ I ordered D&rsquo;oud to bring us three cups of coffee to the Bordj. He cast a
+ vicious look at the Spahi and went out into the darkness. I saw him no
+ more that night. A boy from the Café Maure brought us coffee, cleared the
+ remains of our supper from the table, and presently muttered some Arab
+ salutation, departed, and was lost in the wind.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The murderer was now frankly asleep with his head upon the table, and the
+ Spahi began to blink. I, too, felt very tired, but I had something still
+ to say. Speaking softly, I said to the Spahi:
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;That sound we heard to-night&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Monsieur?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Have you ever heard it before?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Never, monsieur. But my brother heard it just before he had a stroke of
+ the sun. He fell dead before his captain beside the wall of Sada. He was a
+ tirailleur.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;And you think this sound means that death is near?
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;I know it, monsieur. All desert people know it. I was born at Touggourt,
+ and how should I not know?&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;But then one of us&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I looked from him to the sleeping murderer.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;There will be death in Sidi-Massarli tonight, monsieur. It is the will of
+ Allah. Blessed be Allah.&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I got up, locked the heavy door of the Bordj, and put the key in the inner
+ pocket of my coat. As I did so, I fancied I saw the heavy black lids of
+ the murderer&rsquo;s closed eyes flutter for a moment. But I cannot be sure. My
+ head was aching with fatigue. The Spahi, too, looked stupid with sleep. He
+ jerked the cord, the murderer awoke with a start, glanced heavily round,
+ stood up. Pulling him as one would an obstinate dog, the Spahi made him
+ lie down on the bare floor in the corner of the Bordj, ere he himself
+ curled up in the thick quilt which had been rolled up behind his high
+ saddle. I made no protest, but when the Spahi was asleep, his lean brown
+ hand laid upon his sword, his musket under his shaven head, I pushed one
+ of my blankets over to the murderer, who lay looking like a heap of rags
+ against the white wall. He smiled at me gently, as he had smiled when the
+ desert drum was beating, and drew the blanket over his mighty limbs and
+ face.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ I did not mean to sleep that night. Tired though I was my brain was so
+ excited that I felt I should not. I blew out the candle without even the
+ thought that it would be necessary to struggle against sleep. And in the
+ darkness I heard for an instant the roar of the wind outside, the heavy
+ breathing of my two strange companions within. For an instant&mdash;then
+ it seemed as if a shutter was drawn suddenly over the light in my brain.
+ Blackness filled the room where the thoughts develop, crowd, stir in
+ endless activities. Slumber fell upon me like a great stone that strikes a
+ man down to dumbness, to unconsciousness.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Far in the night I had a dream. I cannot recall it accurately now. I could
+ not recall it even the next morning when I awoke. But in this dream, it
+ seemed to me that fingers felt softly about my heart. I was conscious of
+ their fluttering touch. It was as if I were dead, and as if the doctor
+ laid for a moment his hand upon my heart to convince himself that the
+ pulse of life no longer beat. And this action wove itself naturally into
+ the dream I had. The fingers so soft, so surreptitious, were lifted from
+ my breast, and I sank deeper into the gulf of sleep, below the place of
+ dreams. For I was a tired man that night. At the first breath of dawn I
+ stirred and woke. It was cold. I put out one hand and drew up my quilt.
+ Then I lay still. The wind had sunk. I no longer heard it roaring over the
+ desert. For a moment I hardly remembered where I was, then memory came
+ back and I listened for the deep breathing of the Spahi and the murderer.
+ Even when the wind blew I had heard it. I did not hear it now. I lay there
+ under my quilt for some minutes listening. The silence was intense. Had
+ they gone already, started on their way to El Arba? The Bordj was in
+ darkness, for the windows were very small, and dawn had scarcely begun to
+ break outside and had not yet filtered in through the wooden shutters
+ which barred them. I disliked this complete silence, and felt about for
+ the matches I had laid beside the candle before turning in. I could not
+ find them. Someone had moved them, then. The heaviness of sleep had quite
+ left me now, and I remembered clearly all the incidents of the previous
+ evening. The roll of the desert drum sounded again in my ears. I threw off
+ my quilt, got up, and moved softly over the stone floor towards the corner
+ where the murderer had lain down to sleep. I bent down to touch him and
+ touched the stone. They had gone, then! It was strange that I had not been
+ waked by their departure. Besides, I had the key of the door. I thrust my
+ hand into the breast-pocket of my coat which I had worn while I slept. The
+ key was no longer there. Then I remembered my dream and the fingers
+ fluttering round my heart. Stumbling in the blackness I came to the place
+ where the Spahi had lain, stretched out my hands and felt naked flesh. My
+ hands recoiled from it, for it was very cold.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ Half-an-hour later the one-eyed Arab who kept the Bordj, roused by my
+ beating upon the door with the butt end of my revolver, came with D&rsquo;oud to
+ ask what was the matter. The door had to be broken in. This took some
+ time. Long before I could escape, the light of the sun, entering through
+ the little arched windows, had illumined the nude corpse of the Spahi, the
+ gaping red wound in his throat, the heap of murderer&rsquo;s rags that lay
+ across his feet.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ M&rsquo;hammed Bouaziz, in the red cloak, the red boots, sword at his side,
+ musket slung over his shoulder, was galloping over the desert on his way
+ to freedom.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ But six months later he was taken at night outside a café by the lake at
+ Tunis. He was gazing through the doorway at a girl who was posturing to
+ the sound of pipes between two rows of Arabs. The light from the café fell
+ upon his face, the dancer uttered a cry.
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;M&rsquo;hammed Bouaziz!&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ &ldquo;Aïchouch!&rdquo;
+ </p>
+ <p>
+ The law avenged the Spahi, and this time it was not to prison they led my
+ friend of Sidi-Massarli, but to an open space before a squad of soldiers
+ just when the dawn was breaking.
+ </p>
+ <div style="height: 6em;">
+ <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+ </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
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