silence had settled again over the little oasis which an hour before had been the scene of noisiest activity.

scattered amongst the palms and thorn trees the debris of a camp evidenced the passing of a caravan, and three or four miles away the train of lurching camels with its escort of mounted arabs was still visible moving steadily over the rolling waste, heading for the south. seated cross-legged on the warm ground, idly dribbling sand through his long, brown fingers, carew watched it with a feeling of envy, longing for the time when he could once more lead his own caravan towards the heart of the great desert whither his thoughts turned perpetually.

but for the promise made to general sanois he would already have left algiers. the small attraction the town had once had for him had vanished completely in the mental disturbance that had dominated him during the last few weeks. and sanois’ preparations dragged interminably. daily carew was tempted to put his half-laughing threat into execution and abandon the whole enterprise. but the constant delays were no fault of the general who was straining every nerve to complete his arrangements—and carew had given his word. there was nothing for it but to wait with what patience he could muster.

out of tune with himself and his surroundings he had gone for distraction to biskra to attend the annual race meeting, and for three crowded days he had been able, partially, to forget the strange unrest that beset him. but only partially. the little desert town, filled to overflowing for the great event of the year, was too small for chance meetings to be avoided and several times he had glimpsed geradine, blustering and insufferable there as in algiers. but keeping closely to his own circle of acquaintances carew had escaped coming into contact with the man for whom he had conceived a hatred that was inexplicable. and in biskra he had other interests besides the racing to engage his attention. amongst the arab chiefs who poured into the town from far and wide he had encountered many old friends. and it was in response to the earnest request from one of them, the strangest arab he had ever known, that carew had left biskra early the previous day to ride with him the first couple of stages of a journey that would take the sheik weeks to accomplish.

it was long since they had met and the intervening years had brought startling and unforeseen changes into the life of the man carew remembered as a light-hearted captain of spahis who had been more frenchman than arab in his tastes and inclinations.

carew’s gaze turned musingly to the chief who lay stretched on the ground beside him. wrapped in his burnous, his face hidden in his arms, he had slept, or seemed to sleep throughout the hour of the siesta and not even the clamour and bustle of the departing caravan had roused him. carew had watched the breaking up of the camp with more than ordinary interest. a headman had superintended the arrangements with precision and despatch that savoured more of military methods than the usual haphazard procedure prevalent among journeying arabs; and the escort, of whom a dozen or so remained at the further side of the oasis chatting with hosein, were all obviously fighting men, extraordinarily disciplined and orderly.

still in disgrace with the administration for the wiping out of a contiguous tribe ten years before, for what purpose had said ibn zarrarah, ex-captain of spahis and paramount chief of a large district, not only fostered the warlike instincts of a people with fighting traditions behind them but endeavoured, apparently with success, to engraft on them the european tactics he had himself learnt from the rulers of the country? it was an intriguing question carew had pondered while his companion slept. in the old days france had had no more devoted adherent than the dashing young spahi. was there now any ulterior motive in the militarism he encouraged in his people, or was it merely a means by which he sought to distract his mind from a life that carew knew to be uncongenial?

a younger son with no immediate prospect of succeeding to the leadership of the tribe, with aspirations that had never found fulfillment in his desert home, he had, on joining his regiment, become thoroughly gallicised, spending long periods of leave in paris and unlike the average semi-educated native assimilating only what was best in western thought and culture. unspoilt by the flattery and attention heaped on him, notorious for his cold disregard of women, he had lived for his regiment and the racing stable he maintained in france. the death of his elder brother, killed in the raid that had put him out of favour with the government, had called him from the life he loved to assume the cares and duties of a chieftainship he had never desired. hotly resenting the heavy censure of the authorities on an action that had been misrepresented to them, and too proud to explain the necessity that had forced his hand, he had severed all connections with the past and had retired to his desert fastness to combat the suspicions of the elders of his tribe who had distrusted him for his want of religious zeal and for his adherence to the very people with whom he was in disgrace.

the irony of the situation had not been lost on him and it had been a certain satisfaction to prove conclusively his loyalty to his father’s house. the governor who had condemned his action had been superseded shortly afterwards, but the chief of the ibn zarrarah had ignored the change and made no effort towards reconciliation. his heart turned often in secret to the france he had known and loved, he held aloof from his old associates, keeping strictly to his own territory and immersing himself in the affairs of his tribe. he had lived down the mistrust of even the most conservative of his people, conforming outwardly to an orthodoxy that gave him no inward consolation.

this year, for the first time in ten years, he had yielded to the long suppressed desire to revisit the scene of former pleasures. in the old days he had been a conspicuous and well-known figure at the annual race meeting at biskra, popular with arab and frenchman alike and famous for his stud of magnificent horses. the visit just concluded had been made under very different circumstances. unrecognised and almost unremembered he had kept entirely to the company of his own countrymen, a spectator only where once he had been a moving spirit.

the experience had been fraught with more pain than pleasure. he was human enough to feel the difference keenly, philosophical enough to be contemptuous of his own bitterness. but all his philosophy could not heal the ache in his heart or still the longings quickened by the sound of the soft musical language he had spoken for years in preference to his own.

and now when carew bent forward and touched him with a half-laughing “ho, dreamer!” in the vernacular, he sat up with a jerk revealing dark melancholy eyes that were not dulled with sleep but hard and bright with concentrated thought. “for the love of god speak french,” he ejaculated. “oh, i know i’m a fool,” he went on with a half-defiant ring in his voice, “a bigger fool than most—i always was. i was a fool to forget that i was an arab, to try and imagine myself a frenchman. i was a fool, when my brother omair remained childless, not to realise that i might at any time be called upon to give up all that made life pleasant for me. and when he was killed i was a fool to do what i did. you know what happened. i went to algiers to make my amende honorable for having broken the peace of the border, and the governor—that fat old faidherbe who was always trembling for his own skin—waited for no explanation but lost his temper and cursed me. i was ‘an ingrate to be viewed with the deepest suspicion,’ i was ‘a turbulent chief who was a menace to the country.’ i was everything that was vile and contemptible and dishonourable. i lost my own temper in the end and cursed him back until i didn’t know how i got out of the palace without being arrested. i left algiers within the hour and faidherbe misrepresented the whole case to the ministry of the interior, and i have been under suspicion ever since. but what else could i do? i had to fight. i loved omair. when it came to the pinch i found that my love for him was greater than my love for france. i fought to defend his honour, and what i did later i did to avenge his death—do you blame me?”

his restless eyes swept upward in frowning enquiry and a momentary gleam lit them as carew shook his head.

“no! but france blames me, and it hurts—damnably. france—” his voice softened suddenly—“what she meant to me once! i loved her, i love her still—the more fool i! she is like a woman—fickle, undependable—courting you today, spurning you tomorrow. but i cannot hate her as i hate women though she has hurt me as women have hurt me. women! god’s curses on them!” he exclaimed violently. “i always detested them, always avoided them, but they made me suffer despite myself. for love of a woman omair died. the love of a woman took from me my best friend, an englishman as you are, just when i needed him most. bon dieu, how i loathe them!” he flung himself back on the sand with a harsh laugh.

the confidence carew had been expecting ever since they left biskra had come with a rush. much of the story was known to him already. a garbled account of the chief’s delinquencies had been given to him years ago in algiers, more he had learned from his numerous arab friends. that there were faults on both sides was evident, but it was clearly a case where leniency might very well have been extended to a chief who had been one of france’s warmest admirers. it had been the last blunder of a weak and unscrupulous governor whose term of office had been a series of unfortunate happenings. to curry favour with the home authorities he had screened his own hastiness and magnified the chief’s offence, forgetting that his scapegoat had it in his power to retaliate in a way that would have cost france much. the ibn zarrarah were a large and powerful tribe whose sphere of influence was far reaching and, flushed at the moment with victory, a revolt of more than ordinary magnitude might easily have occurred. their chief, seething under a sense of injustice, a very little might have turned the scale in favour of rebellion—and wars of suppression were expensive. and often carew had wondered not at what said ibn zarrarah had done but at what he had left undone. but now as he sat still raking the loose warm sand with his fingers he was thinking more of the chief’s concluding words than of his grievance against the french government.

he looked again at the distant caravan, a mere smudge now on the horizon. he had spent a day and a night with the arab and his train of followers and he had reason to know that one of those slow moving camels carried the closely screened travelling box of the wife of the man who had cursed all women as heartily and as passionately as ever he had done himself.

“you loathe women—and yet you are married,” he said slowly, without turning his head or altering the direction of his gaze.

the chief rolled over with a growl of angry impatience.

“for the sake of the tribe,” he flashed. “do you think by any chance that i did it to please myself! do i do anything to please myself in these days? i put it off as long as possible, but my people were insistent—the house of zarrarah had need of an heir.”

“and your wife—?” the involuntary question surprised carew even more than his listener. to an ordinary arab the remark would have been beyond the bounds of all etiquette and convention; to said ibn zarrarah, western in his ideas even with regard to the sex he despised, it was curious only as coming from the man it did.

“she is happy with her child,” he said with a shrug of indifference, and searched for a cigarette in the folds of his burnous. but despite his outward show of unconcern it seemed as if his answer had scarcely contented himself for his black brows were knitted gloomily and his face almost sullen as he sat smoking in silence with his melancholy eyes fixed on the boundless space before him. “why should she not be happy?” he burst out at length. “she has everything she asks for—the only wonder is she asks so little. she has more liberty allowed her than the average arab woman—and is too rigid an arab to make use of it. she is alone in my harem, she has no rival to make her life miserable—and she has borne a son to the house of zarrarah.”

she had borne a son—the supreme desire of the eastern woman.

a shadow crossed carew’s face as he turned and looked at his companion curiously. “and is that no compensation to you? there are those who would envy you your son, sheik,” he said, with a touch of bitterness in his voice. but his question went unanswered and he changed the conversation abruptly.

“you were a fool to leave it to faidherbe,” he said with friendly candour. “you knew what he was, and the attitude he was likely to adopt. you had your chance with the change of administration. his successor is a very different type. he would at least have listened to your explanations with an open mind. he would listen to them now if you chose to make them. but the first move must come from you. you cannot expect the government to make overtures to one who is suspect. i heard the story at the time, of course—faidherbe’s version of it, that is to say. but i could do nothing then. i was practically new to the country and i was not—”

“you were not el hakim—the eye of france,” cut in the chief with a swift smile. carew laughed.

“is that what they call me? a blind eye, sheik, where my friends are concerned.” the chief nodded. “that i have also heard. and that is why you are trusted—trusted as few men are in algeria,” he added gravely.

and for a time he relapsed into silence and carew waited for the suggestion he preferred the other to make. he had a certain influence now with the government, he could pave the way for a reconciliation—if said ibn zarrarah really desired it. but did he desire it? it was clear from what he had said that in spite of his very natural feeling of resentment the chief nourished no schemes of revenge and had no thought of turning the large forces at his command against the country he still admired. but wounded in his deepest susceptibilities, embittered by years of solitary brooding, would his pride allow him to make overtures that must of necessity be humiliating and would require a certain moral courage to perform? and his present position was a strong one, apart from the injury to his feelings he had little to lose or gain either way.

it was a problem the chief would have to decide for himself. in the years that carew had worked in the country he had learned to keep his own counsel. he never interfered or gave gratuitous advice, and was chary even of advising when asked. he had come to have a deep insight into the workings of the native mind and he had long since realised the value of neutrality. his r?le of intermediary was possible only so long as his sympathies remained equally divided between the people of the land and their foreign rulers.

and now he waited long for said ibn zarrarah to speak, so long that more than once he glanced covertly at the watch on his wrist. it was time, and past the time, that the chief should start to overtake the caravan that was now no longer distinguishable, and time that he himself set out on the fifty mile ride back to biskra. travelling with no camping impedimenta to hinder him he had reckoned on spending the night at a tiny village that was known to him and which made a convenient halting place. he would have to ride hard if the squalid little collection of mud huts was to be reached before the light gave out. not that either he or hosein minded a night spent supperless under the stars, but there were the horses to be considered. there was, too, an odd feeling in the air that he had only just realised. the heat that all day had been intense was now suffocating. and as he raised his hand to brush away the moisture lying thick on his forehead, it dawned on him that he had been doing so frequently during the last hour. instinctively his eyes swept the horizon. there was nothing to break the uninterrupted view, and seen through the shimmering haze that eddied from its surface, the wide expanse of sand looked like the rolling waves of a vast leaden sea. a sullen angry sea that seemed to heave and writhe as though straining to let loose the tremendous forces lying dormant within its mighty bosom. and far off to the southeast, where sky and sand met, a faint dark line like an inky smudge caught carew’s attention and sent him to his feet with a sharp exclamation.

“you were better with your people, sheik.”

at the sound of his voice the chief looked up with a start and sudden anxiety flashed into his eyes as they followed the direction of the other’s pointing finger. then his gaze turned southward and for a moment he stood peering intently as if striving to visualise the caravan that had long since passed out of sight. without moving he shouted to his men and almost before the words died on his lips his horse was beside him and he swung into the saddle.

bending down he caught carew’s outstretched hand in a grip that conveyed much he did not utter.

“some day i may ask you to speak for me,” he muttered hurriedly, and was gone in a swirl of dust and sand.

for a minute or two carew lingered, looking after him, then turned to hosein who was bringing up the horses. the man jerked his head towards the east. “my lord has seen?” he murmured. carew nodded. “it may pass,” he said, running his fingers caressingly over suliman’s neck before gathering up the reins. but hosein shook his head. “it will come,” he asserted positively, “they know,” he added, pointing to the horses whose nervous fidgeting and sweat-drenched coats evidenced uneasiness.

“then in god’s name let it come,” replied carew with a short laugh, “are we children to fear a sandstorm?” and hosein’s grim features relaxed in an answering grin as he held his master’s stirrup for him to mount.

riding, the air seemed less stagnant but the heat increased momentarily and the deep silence of the desert was more strangely silent than usual.

the horses were racing, urged by instinct, and splashes of white foam thrown back from suliman’s champing jaws powdered carew’s dark burnous like flakes of snow.

but it was said ibn zarrarah rather than the approaching sandstorm that engaged his mind as he leant forward in the saddle to ease his weight from the galloping horse. said’s case was only one of thousands of others, he reflected. east or west the problems of life were very similar. the point of view might differ but the problems remained the same. the eternal struggle between duty and inclination was not confined only to the so-called civilized races but raged as fiercely here under the burning african sun as in many more temperate climes. and said ibn zarrarah, trained from boyhood to despotism and self-indulgence, had shown more moral courage than he himself had done. surrendering to a sense of obligation the arab had gone back to the life he loathed and assumed duties that were distasteful to him, while he, for a private sorrow, had shirked the responsibilities that were his by inheritance. it was a humiliating truth that was indisputable.

and from said ibn zarrarah, carew’s thoughts wandered to the young wife who was waiting for the coming of the husband who had married her only to satisfy the wishes of his people. it was a strange marriage even for an arab woman. though treated evidently with unusual consideration, her life must be a difficult one. rigidly orthodox, as there was every reason to suppose she was, her lord’s western tendencies and liberality of thought would alone be sufficient cause for perplexity and bewilderment. and solitary in a harem that was probably a marvel of oriental sumptuousness, surrounded by everything that a woman could desire, with no spoken wish ungratified, might she not still be longing for more than the cold and empty symbols of a lavish generosity that was prompted only by a sense of what was properly her due as the wife of a powerful sheik? “she has everything she asks for—the only wonder is she asks so little.” unloved and perhaps yearning for the love denied her, were her wants so few by reason of the one want that made all others valueless to her? said, with his magnificent physique and fine features, was an arresting figure of a man who would appeal to any woman, more particularly to one who could have had little or no opportunity of seeing other men with whom to contrast him. small wonder if the girl-bride had fallen in love with her stalwart, handsome husband. and he? was love for her dawning in spite of his professed hatred of women—was the mother of his son already more to him than he realised? he was not as indifferent to her welfare as his words had seemed to imply. he had gone unnecessarily out of his way to endeavour to represent her as contented with her lot. that in itself was significant. and the look that had leaped to his eyes when carew drew his attention to the threatening storm was certainly not anxiety on his own behalf.

what did the coming years hold for him and the woman he had married? the woman—carew checked his wandering thoughts with a bitter smile. what had he to do with women and the love of women?

jerking his head angrily he waved hosein to his side, and as he turned in the saddle a sudden gust of wind, scorching as the heat from an oven door, struck against his face and a heavy peal of thunder crashed through the intense stillness, reverberating sharply like the prolonged rattling of artillery. for an instant the horses faltered, quivering and snorting, then leaped forward racing neck and neck and, together, the two men looked behind them. the inky smudge on the skyline was blacker and more apparent than it had been, rolling swiftly up like a dense impenetrable wall, and for the first time carew realised the gloom that, preoccupied, he had not noticed before. there seemed no possibility now of escaping the storm that earlier he had thought would pass too far to the south to touch them, and the prospects for the night should they over-ride the tiny village in the darkness, were not cheering. but it was all in the day’s work and he was accustomed to the vagaries of the desert. and there was something in the thought of the approaching struggle with the elements that stirred his blood and made him almost welcome the physical discomfort that would inevitably ensue. it was something tangible he could contend with, something he could do, and doing, forget perhaps for a few hours the strange unrest that had laid so strong a hold on him.

a vivid flash of lightning followed by another deafening roar of thunder stemmed the current of his thoughts and concentrated all his attention on his nervous mount. the pick of his stud, suliman was the fastest horse carew had ever ridden, and today, fleeter than usual by reason of his fear, it was difficult to restrain the headlong gallop that threatened to carry him far beyond his companion.

tightening his grip carew leant forward soothing the terrified animal with voice and hand. the gloom was increasing, the gusts of hot wind more frequent and of longer duration, bringing with them now the stinging whip of driving sand. there was a distant muttering like the far off surge of waves beating against a rocky coast and suddenly the sun went out, hidden by the racing clouds that swept across the heavens, and with a tearing, whining scream the storm broke.

reeling under the terrific impact of the wind that staggered even the galloping horses, blinded with the swirling sand, the two men crouched low in their saddles, wrestling with the flapping cloaks they strove to draw closer about them, struggling to keep near to each other, their voices lost in the roar of the tempest. the surrounding country was obliterated and a thick darkness enveloped them. between his knees carew could feel the great bay trembling and starting but the strain was eased somewhat from his arms for the need of companionship had driven suliman close beside the horse hosein was riding. it was pure chance now where they would find themselves when the storm abated for the darkness and the whirling clouds of sand obscured every landmark. but it was not a matter with which carew concerned himself. he had been through many sandstorms, fiercer and more prolonged than this one was likely to be. and here they were only catching the fringe of it. further to the south said, with his slow moving camels and the burden of women on his hands, was probably in a far worse case and would spend a more uncomfortable night than they would. with a shrug he spat out a mouthful of sand and dragged the heavy burnous higher about his face. the flying particles stung like showers of spraying glass and the reins were rough and gritty between his wet fingers. from time to time he shook off the clinging accumulation but it gathered fast again filtering up his wide sleeves and penetrating through his thick clothing till his whole body was tingling and pricking. but in spite of the discomfort he was happier than he had been for weeks. the fighting instinct in him leaped to meet the fury of the storm. there was no time to think. he lived for the moment, every nerve strained to the utmost, his sombre eyes glowing with a curious look of pleasure, his knees thrust tight against his horse’s ribs, his powerful limbs braced to resist the violent gusts that threatened to tear him from the saddle. the fierce howling of the wind, the savage pitilessness of the scene filled him with a strange excitement, making him exult in his own physical strength, the strength that had enabled him to pursue the wild and strenuous life he had made his own. it was nature, capricious and changeful as he had learned to know her—the nature he had turned to in his time of need, the nature he would go back to with undiminished pleasure and confidence. a hard mistress, cruel often, but alluring and compelling for her very waywardness.

the storm had been raging for some time before the rain came, a heavy tropical downpour that, unexpected as it was short lived, drenched the men’s thick cloaks and caked the sand on the horse’s bodies. it passed quickly and with its going the gloom lessened slightly and the wind abated somewhat of its violence. but carew placed no faith in the temporary lull. it would blow again later, or he was very much mistaken, and probably harder than before. meanwhile it was an opportunity to push on, to increase the pace of the horses, whose mad gallop had gradually slackened while the storm was at its height. it was only nerves and the strong wind that had slowed them down. they were capable of a good deal yet in spite of the strain they had gone through. it was not such blind going now but it was still impossible to distinguish any of the outstanding features of the district and the village they were making for could be easily passed within a stone’s throw and yet missed. and night was falling rapidly. there was nothing for it but to carry on and trust to luck.

for an hour they rode steadily, huddled in their dripping cloaks, silent as they usually were when together. and the moment, to men even more communicatively inclined than carew and his taciturn servant, was not conducive to conversation. the air was still impregnated with drifting sand that sifted through to mouth and nostrils in spite of the close drawn cloaks, and the wind made speech difficult. and furthermore, carew was succumbing to an intense and growing feeling of drowsiness. he had not slept during the hour of the siesta at the oasis and he had been up the greater part of the previous night attending to one of said’s followers who had taken an ugly toss from a stumbling camel. suliman, his panic subsided, had resumed his usual smooth gallop and his easy movements were sleep inducing. more than once carew found his sand-rimmed eyes closing. it was hosein who noticed the first indication that luck had favoured them and that they were on the right track for the village they had scarcely thought to find. a clump of withered palms clustered beside a broken well that had been dry for years. carew recognised the mournful little spot with a half-somnolent feeling of detachment and nodded sleepily in response to his servant’s exclamation. and it was again hosein who made the further discovery that drew from him a second exclamation that effectually banished his master’s drowsiness.

almost hidden by the palm trees and the crumbling masonry of the well, two riderless horses stood with dejected, down-drooping heads, ridden to a standstill apparently for even suliman’s angry squeal failed to attract their attention. motionless like creatures of bronze, their backs to the driving sand, their dangling bridles flapping in the wind, there was something singularly forlorn in their attitude. at sight of them carew scowled in momentary indecision. he had no wish to be hampered with the care of two spent horses, but it was not a night to pass even an animal in distress. with a word to hosein, he swung suliman towards the little dead oasis. the weary beasts took no notice of their approach and did not move as carew drew rein beside them. a quick glance about him and he slid suddenly out of the saddle. near by lay an arab, face downwards on the ground, and a few steps away a powerfully built european sat with his back propped against the broken wall of the well nursing a heavy riding whip across his knees. his head was sunk between his shoulders, his face hidden by the wide brim of the helmet pulled low on his forehead. rain-drenched and spattered with mud and sand that caked his once immaculate boots and clung closely to the rough surface of his tweed coat, he presented a sorry spectacle, but his plight had evidently not impaired his power of speech for there came from his lips a steady flow of uninterrupted blasphemy that sounded oddly in such a place and at such a time.

carew was no purist himself, but the unnecessary foulness of the words that assailed his ears roused in him a feeling of disgust and he turned abruptly to the prostrate arab who seemed in more immediate need of attention. but as he touched him the man rolled from under his hands and stumbling to his feet, shrank away with upraised arm as though to ward off a blow. his eyes were dazed but mingling with the pain in them there was a look of deep hatred, and his bruised and bleeding mouth told their own tale. the individual by the well was evidently a hard hitter as well as a hard swearer. to carew, the sullen, twitching features were vaguely familiar and it was obvious, when after a few moments the arab collected himself sufficiently to speak, that he himself was recognised. but he could not place him and the name that was reluctantly vouchsafed conveyed nothing—he knew dozens of arabs with the same designation. more he could not ask. whatever were his feelings on the subject he could not interfere between master and servant. but his expression was not pleasant and he was conscious of a rising anger as he swung on his heel to go back to the well. he did not reach it. with slow clenching hands he stood where he had turned staring at the man who was leisurely coming towards him—the man he had been trying to avoid since the night, weeks ago, of the opera. the sodden helmet was pushed back revealing clearly, even in the dim light, the blotched, dissipated looking face that had stirred him to so strange and deadly a hatred. and now, in their close proximity, that strange hatred seemed to increase a thousandfold and it was all carew could do to preserve semblance of passivity and conceal the boiling rage that filled him. it was like nothing he had ever experienced in his life before. as on that night in algiers it was sweeping him with a force that was beyond all reason, all explanation. he could not explain it. he could not conquer it. he could only hope to retain the self-command that seemed perilously near to breaking point, for again the same appalling desire to kill was pouring over him. aghast at the horrible impulse that was almost more than he could resist he thrust his hands behind him to keep them from the weapon that lay hidden in the folds of his waistcloth. and completely oblivious of the storm of passion his presence had evoked, geradine strode up to him with the swaggering gait and overbearing demeanour that characterised him always, but which was especially notable in his dealings with any native, irrespective of rank. a native to him was a native, an inferior creature little better than the beasts of the field, to be dominated by fear and kept in his place. he stood now, his legs planted widely apart, slapping his boot with his riding whip, surveying carew through insolent half-closed eyes.

“look here—” he began, his tone a mixture of truculence and arrogant condescension. “i’m in the devil of a mess. came out from biskra for a day or two’s camping—missed my people in this infernal sandstorm—all the fault of that fool there. what’ll you take to get me out of this bally graveyard? my beasts are knocked up—yours look pretty fresh. name your price, and for heaven’s sake get a move on, i—oh, damn!” he broke off with a petulant shrug of annoyance as carew continued to stare at him with a purposely blank face that was neither helpful nor encouraging. for a few moments, imagining himself to be not understood, he glared wrathfully at the supposed arab, favouring him with a string of personal epithets that were neither complimentary nor parliamentary. and with contemptuous indifference carew let him curse. if geradine had accepted him as an arab, an arab he would remain—but not an arab to be either browbeaten or bribed. he was not in a mood to make things easier for the blustering bully who was working himself up into a state of childish rage. he could alter his tone if he wanted assistance. nor at the moment was carew very certain that his assistance would be forthcoming. why should he go out of his way to help a man he hated! to be left in the predicament in which he was would be a salutary experience that might have a chastening effect on one who was obviously unused to opposition or discomfort in any shape or form. a few privations would do him no harm. and if he died in the desert, which was not in the least likely, his death would probably be a source of relief rather than grief to his friends and relations. quite suddenly carew thought of the wife of the man who was facing him. she certainly, if all reports were true, would have no cause to lament a husband she evidently went in dread of. but what was that to him! a surge of anger went through him as his down-bent eyes swept upward to meet the insolent stare fixed on him. the foul-mouthed brute! god, how he hated him! almost unconsciously he moved a step forward, and there was something menacing in his expression that checked geradine’s flow of language.

with a shade more civility in his tongue he began to repeat his demand in halting french that was scarcely comprehensible. and with typical arab aloofness carew waited for him to come to the end of his stumbling explanations. but it was not on his account that he listened to him. it was the need of the wretched servant and the two exhausted horses that swayed him and moved him finally to a reluctant decision.

with a cold word of assent, and a curt gesture that sent the quick blood rushing to the other’s face, he turned haughtily as though from an inferior and walked back to the horses, leaving geradine to stare after him spluttering with rage, twisting and bending the pliable whip between his coarse hands, in two minds whether to follow him or not. curse the dam’ nigger and his infernal cheek, looking at him as if he were dirt! a bit above himself, that chap. that’s what came of treating natives as the french did—equality, fraternity and the rest of it, by gad! a rotten country! who did the supercilious beggar think he was talking to, anyhow? a silly tourist to be impressed by his dam’ airs of superiority? he was hanged if he would stick impudence from any arab. coming the free son of the desert over him, was he? the blighter could go to blazes, and his horses too for that matter. he’d not truckle to any eternally condemned son of a—but a freshening gust of wind that, sand laden, whipped against his cheek with unpleasant suggestiveness cut short his muttered imprecations and quashed his half-formed intention of revoking his demand for assistance and relying on himself to get out of an uncomfortable situation he was convinced was due entirely to the muddle-headedness of his servant. curse the fool—there hadn’t been a job yet that he hadn’t mucked up! recommended for his capabilities, by jove! a well-trained valet and an efficient dragoman, was he? he’d be a bit more trained and efficient when his present employer was done with him. there was only one way of dealing with cattle of that kind, and malec wouldn’t be the first nigger he’d licked into shape, not by a long way. but malec could wait—he could deal with him later.

with a snarl that boded little good for the unfortunate valet geradine went with no show of haste to join the group of men and horses by the well-head. carew was already mounted, wrestling with suliman who was backing and rearing impatiently. he swung him round as the viscount approached.

“you can ride my servant’s horse,” he said in french, “yours can hardly carry themselves. the men will have to walk.”

with a grunt which was certainly not an expression of courtesy geradine took the bridle hosein offered him and climbed stiffly into the saddle. his drenched condition and his resentment at the authoritative tone addressed to him did not tend to improve either his manners or his temper, and with characteristic pettiness he vented his ill-humour on the object nearest at hand. the horse that had been lent to him was plunging in furious protest at the raking spurs that were being used with unnecessary violence and, losing command of himself, he slashed savagely at the little shapely head with his whip. twice the heavy thong rose and fell, then a hand like steel closed on his wrist and it was wrenched from him. and, turning with an oath, he found himself confronted by a pair of blazing eyes in which he read not only rage but a totally unexpected hatred that sent an odd sensation of cold rippling down his spine. he flinched involuntarily, dragging his horse aside, conscious for the first time in his life of a feeling of fear. but the strange look that had startled him was gone in a flash and carew’s face was impassive as he reined his own horse back. “your pardon, monsieur, he is unused to a whip,” he said icily, and sent the offending weapon spinning into the mouth of the empty well where it fell beyond recovery. speechless with fury geradine glared at him, and then, his french too limited to adequately express his feelings, let out a string of curses in his own language which would have given him more pleasure had he known them to be understood. but his hands were fully occupied with the enraged mount and carew had already ridden on. it was blowing again steadily. carew, sure now of his bearings, was heading more to the east and the swirling sand was driving straight at them. muffled in his burnous, his face shielded somewhat by the close drawn haick, he felt it less than geradine did. but he had no sympathy to waste on the huddled figure behind them with the exhausted horses. for them he was glad that the village lay only a bare three miles away. and even three miles, over rough uneven ground and against a strong wind, was a sufficiently tedious tramp for men unused to walking and hampered by two jaded beasts who required constant encouragement to induce them to move at all. progress was necessarily slow and more than once geradine, impatient of the snail’s pace at which they were proceeding, let out his fretting horse and dashed on ahead. but ignorant of the way and not relishing the prospect of losing sight of his companions in the growing darkness he was forced each time to curb his impetuosity and wait for the others to come up with him.

for a time he kept silence, but at last his annoyance found utterance. “see here,” he exploded angrily, as carew for the fifth time ranged alongside without seeming to notice the temporary separation, “this isn’t a bally funeral! for heaven’s sake push on a bit.” and as carew turned to him with an indifferent “plait-il?” he lost his temper completely. “plus vite, you silly ass,” he bellowed. “pas un cortège, n’est-ce-pas—confound you!”

for a moment carew hesitated, his own temper rising dangerously. then he shrugged and raising his hand pointed behind him. “the men are walking,” he said shortly, and wondered how long it would be before he was goaded into retaliation. to profess ignorance of his mother tongue was easy, to sit quietly under a storm of abuse and personal epithets was rather more difficult. but he had brought it on himself, he had allowed geradine to think him an arab and an arab he would have to remain. to tardily admit his nationality was impossible, it would only make geradine feel that he had been made a fool of and might probably lead to a quarrel that could easily end disastrously. as it was, his mere presence was almost more than carew could endure. he had kept a firm hold over himself so far but he knew that a very little more would shatter his self-control. he had voluntarily decided on a certain line of action and he would have to go on with it, if only for the sake of the wretched arab. left in the lurch, geradine would undoubtedly wreck his wrath on the servant who had been already sufficiently manhandled. and again carew racked his brains to recollect where he had seen the man before. he rarely forgot faces and now, for want of something better to engage his attention, he set himself to discover why the dimly remembered features were familiar. it flashed across him at length. de granier’s man—taken on with the villa, probably, poor devil. a fairly recent addition to the frenchman’s household, malec had made no very definite impression on the guest he had served but once. but having identified him carew, casting back in his mind, remembered that de granier had spoken of him as a curious character, responding to kindness, but sullen when corrected and quick to take offence.

the change from the easy-going frenchman to service with a brute like geradine must have been great, and carew wondered suddenly what induced him to remain with a master he obviously hated. high wages—or a more sinister purpose?—he checked himself abruptly. he would be doing murder by proxy, and rather enjoying it, if he let his thoughts race in this fashion. his own incomprehensible hatred was deep enough without allowing himself to dwell on another’s grievances. and for him there was not even the excuse of a grievance. for no reason or cause whatsoever he had hated geradine at sight. with a shrug of perplexity he drew his cloak closer round him and shook the stinging sand from his bridle hand.

the wind was gathering in force every minute and the light fading rapidly. if it failed entirely and they missed the little village in the darkness there was no other shelter available and carew did not welcome the thought of a night spent in the open with his present company. at this slow pace the way seemed more like thirty miles than three. but he could not increase it. even kept to a walk, the horses had outpaced the men and they were some distance behind. deaf to geradine’s snarl of protest, carew pulled up and waited until hosein was alongside of him. and as the man’s hand touched his stirrup the storm broke again with redoubled fury and a tearing gust enveloped them in a cloud of blinding sand. for a few moments the horses became almost unmanageable, wheeling backs to the storm and crowding together in a plunging, kicking bunch. they were pulled apart at last and the little party struggled on in the teeth of the wind, choked with the driving particles and straining their eyes through the gloom.

and complete darkness had fallen before they stumbled upon the squalid little collection of mud huts that formed the village. tenantless, it seemed at first, for no lights shone from the tiny barred windows that were blocked with rags to keep out the drifting sand. but hosein, despatched in quest of the headman, returned shortly with an elderly arab who, shrouded in a multitude of filthy coverings, salaamed obsequiously in answer to carew’s shouted enquiry and led them to a hut a little distance away.

only a hovel it was, but sheltering an amazingly large family—vague, shadowy figures, sexless in their close drawn draperies, who shrank from the vicinity of the strangers and slipped away stealthily into the night with heads bent low and shoulders hunched against the sweeping wind as the headman routed them out unceremoniously to give place to the unexpected visitors. one room, the further portion screened for the use of the women of the family, and indescribably dirty and comfortless. it was nothing new to carew, use had accustomed him to even greater squalor than this, but geradine’s disgust was evident as he stared about him with curling lip, spitting the sand from his mouth and shaking it from his clothing. wet and angry, and in no mood to be further inconvenienced, the sight of the horses vigorously propelled into the hut through the narrow entrance moved him to noisy expostulation. with frequent and profanatory lapses into english he managed to convey his total disapproval of the shelter provided for him, which he described as unfit even for pigs, and wrathfully announced his disinclination to share the limited accommodation with “those dam’ brutes”—horses and men-servants grouped impartially. his own tired beasts stood shivering and listless but suliman and hosein’s horses were nervous of their surroundings and for a short space pandemonium reigned in the hut and his remonstrances passed unheeded. when he could hear himself speak again he reiterated his demands loudly. but carew, who was stooping to unloosen suliman’s girths, waved an indifferent hand towards the door and intimated sharply that if he preferred the sandstorm he was at liberty to remove himself, but that as far as he—carew—was concerned men and horses remained where they were until the weather conditions improved.

unused to opposition, and too selfish to think of anything but his own comfort, the flat refusal was all that was needed to stir geradine’s smouldering rage to a white heat of fury. an ugly look swept across his lowering face and he started forward with a threatening gesture. and for a few seconds it seemed as if the open quarrel carew had feared was now inevitable. tired and on edge, goaded by the other’s insolence and overbearing manner, driven by his own hatred, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to respond to the provocation offered him. every instinct urged him to retaliate. he had done already all that could be humanly expected of him, and for two hours he had borne patiently with insults and abuse. he had done enough, and now his patience had reached its limit. and it was geradine, not he, who was forcing the quarrel. then why not give him what he asked for? by every means in his power he had tried to avoid him—and fate had thrust them together. carew’s heart beat with a fierce exultant throb, and the atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to become electric—alive with naked passions—as the two men stared into each other’s eyes. behind them the arabs, sensitive of the tension, were watching intently, and hosein was edging nearer to his master, his hand stealing to the knife in his belt. then with a tremendous effort carew thrust from him the temptation to which he had almost succumbed and swinging on his heel without a word turned back to his horse. and checked, despite himself, by a silence he did not understand, geradine made no further protest, but fell back with an inarticulate growl and crossing the room, dropped down heavily on the cleanest spot he could find, as far removed from the others as possible.

lighting a cigar with difficulty, for his matches were wet, he smoked sulkily until the horses were unsaddled. then fumbling in the pocket of his sodden coat he produced a good-sized flask and, gulping down the remaining contents, shouted to the sullen-faced arab—who was leaning moodily against the wall beside the steaming horses—to bring him more brandy. apathetically, the man unstrapped the leathern holster from his master’s saddle. and, following him, carew saw the savage kick aimed at him as geradine snatched the second flask from his outstretched hand. to the multifarious odours that filled the little room was added the reek of raw spirit for the viscount, whose hand was shaking, spilled as much as he drank of the undiluted cognac with which he sought to quench an unquenchable thirst. even so, added to what he had previously taken, the allowance was a generous one. but, beyond deepening the colour in his already congested face and further dissatisfying him with his environment, it seemed to make no difference to him for he cursed as fluently and as intelligibly as before as he shivered closer into the corner where he was sitting in a vain attempt to avoid the sweeping draughts that whistled through innumerable cracks in the broken, mud walls of the hut.

with growing hatred and disgust carew listened to the uninterrupted flow of filthy language, wishing passionately that geradine’s hand had been steadier. dead drunk he would at least have been silent. half tipsy and vituperative he was intolerable. was this what the girl listened to day after day and night after night—carew flung his wet cloak back with an angry jerk, scowling at the sudden thought. it was no business of his, no business of his, he whispered doggedly as he searched for a cigarette. no business of his—but remembrance, stimulated, was easier than forgetfulness and for long he stared sombrely at the wreathing clouds of faint blue smoke that, curling upward in fantastic spirals, seemed to frame the exquisite oval of a pale, pure face. when at last, by sheer strength of will, he forced his mind back to the immediate present, geradine’s grumbling had ceased and he seemed to be asleep. the men, too, were dozing, though hosein’s hand moved mechanically each time the restless suliman stamped. the room was perceptibly darker, and looking for the cause, carew saw that one of the two little earthenware lamps left by the routed family had burnt out and the other was flickering feebly. he wondered if he also had been asleep. and listening for the gusts of wind that before had shaken the crumbling building he realised that the storm had passed. the atmosphere was stifling, and going to the door he wrenched it open and went out into the night. there the change was almost magical. swept clean, the heavens were blazing with stars and the desert lay calm and still in the soft, clear light of a rising moon whose slanting beams shone silver on the sand. a peace and silence that was gripping. to carew, still seething with the hatred that a little while since had almost mastered him, the marvellous beauty of the night was like the touch of a healing hand and, watching it, for a time he forgot even geradine.

behind him the tiny collection of huts straggled dark and mysterious in the deep shadow of a great bare rock that, stark and solitary, rose out of the level plain at some distance from the chain of mountains to which it properly belonged. but he did not look at the sleeping village. it was the desert that held him—the desert that with its silent voice was whispering, enticing, as so often it had whispered and enticed before, drawing him with the glamour of its hidden secrets. caressingly his eyes swept the moonlit plain. he was one with it now, a nomad for all time. more than the stately house in england, more than the miniature palace in algiers, it was his home. for ten years he had lived in it. for ten years, seeking to cure his own hurt, he had tried to bring relief to others, fighting misery and disease, appalled by the magnitude of his task and seeming to have accomplished so little. but even the little was worth while. by even the little he was repaid. his toil had not been altogether in vain. by god’s grace he had been enabled to do something, and by god’s grace he would do still more. in the deep stillness of the eastern night the sense of the divine presence was very near and, in all humbleness, carew prayed from his heart for strength to continue the work that had become his life.

as he arose from his knees hosein came to him, uneasy at his absence and the unwilling bearer of a message.

“the english lord is hungry,” he announced briefly, with patent scorn in his voice that carew affected not to hear. the situation was already sufficiently difficult without having to reprove his servant for a lapse that was due entirely to geradine’s own behaviour.

with a last glance at the shining stars he went reluctantly back to the hut.

half hidden in a haze of cigar smoke and aggressively wide awake geradine hailed his appearance with no more civility than before.

“clear out those cursed beasts,” he shouted truculently. “i can’t sleep in a damned stable! and get me something to eat. something—to—eat. quelque chose à manger, comprenez?—you blasted fool!” he added, pantomiming vigorously. the blood rolled in a dark wave to carew’s face but determined to keep his temper he swallowed the retort that sprang to his lips and gave the required orders with apparent unconcern. but he smiled inwardly as he watched the men lead the horses away. it was very doubtful whether food of any kind would be procurable at this time of night, and even if hosein’s endeavours met with success it was not likely that geradine would appreciate the rough fare of the necessitous little village. nor, he was convinced, would the handful of crushed dates he carried in his waistcloth prove any more acceptable.

and when at length hosein returned with a bowl of curdled camel’s milk he was not surprised that the viscount, after one glance of mingled dismay and repugnance, rejected both it and the unsavoury looking little mass of sand covered fruit with a disgusted “lord, what beastly muck!” and retired into his corner with his hunger unsatisfied to curse himself to sleep. he was still sleeping heavily when carew woke with the dawn and went out to find hosein and the horses and make arrangements for geradine’s return to biskra. it was not his intention that they should ride together. his sole desire was to get away as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the man he hated more vehemently than ever.

last night he had controlled himself only by a super-human effort. this morning he felt he could no longer trust himself. to escape the leave taking that was otherwise unavoidable he did not go back to the hut when, an hour later, he was ready for the road and had concluded his interview with malec and the headman of the village.

but as his foot was in the stirrup geradine appeared, yawning sleepily, and swinging his arms to get the stiffness out of them. having wakened for once without his customary morning headache he was in a better temper than usual. apparently oblivious of his incivility of the previous evening he lounged forward with an air of condescending geniality, prepared evidently to make himself agreeable. his shouted greeting terminated in a loud laugh as he glanced at carew, clean shaven and immaculate as hosein always contrived he should be, and then at his own soiled clothing.

“you look smart enough, by gad,” he said, fingering his rough chin tenderly, “where the devil do you find water and a razor in this filthy little hole? you’re off early—what’s your hurry? oh, damn it, i forgot you can’t speak english. well, never mind, you’re a sportsman whatever you are. i’d have been in the soup last night if you hadn’t come along. many thanks—dash it, i mean très obligé, mille remerciments—and all the rest of it, don’t you know.” and with another laugh he thrust out his hand.

but incited by the gentle pressure of his rider’s heel suliman plunged wildly and shot away leaving geradine with his arm still outstretched, half annoyed and half amused at carew’s abrupt departure.

proud as lucifer, like every other potty little chief he had ever met—but the beggar could ride, he reflected as he stood looking after the galloping horsemen, and the man he had with him was worth a dozen of the fool he was landed with. and yawning again he turned back to the hut and roared for the fool in question.