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Updated: June 26, 2025
In the wind was it imagination? I seemed to hear some thin, passing echoes of a tom-tom's beat. "Come in," I said to the Spahi. "You shall sup with me to-night, and and you shall sleep here with me." D'oud's expressive face became sinister. Arabs are almost as jealous as they are vain. "But, monsieur, he will sleep in the Café Maure. If monsieur wishes for a companion, I "
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.
"Not like a tipsy Spahi!" It was a cruel cut to her gros bebees, mostly Spahis, lying there at her feet, or rather at the foot of the wall, singing the praises with magnanimity beyond praise of a certain Chasseur d'Afrique. "Ho, Cigarette!" growled a little Zouave, known as Tata Leroux. "That is the way thou forsakest thy friends for the first fresh face."
"Will your horse stand, corporal?" he asked of the spahi. "Perfectly, my colonel." "Leave him, then," said the commandant, "and bring one of your pistols."
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. The desolation here was complete. All around us lay the dunes, monstrous as still leviathans.
The commandant put his hands behind his back. The spahi edged his horse up closely. "Who are you?" asked the commandant, in French. The man shook his head, but still held out the paper. "Who are you?" asked the commandant again, but now in Arabic. "I am Ali, the slave of Abdullah," answered the man, "and he sends you this letter." The commandant remained motionless.
I stuck that Spahi just now just by way of a lark, and only 'cause he come where he'd no business to poke his turbaned old pate; 'taint likely as I should stop at giving the Hawk two inches of steel if he comes such a insult over us both as to offer a blackguard like me the epaulettes as you ought to be a-wearing!"
It had occurred to him while helping his aunt with the invitations, that something of interest to Miss Ray might be learned at the Governor's house. He knew the Governor more or less, in a social way. Now he asked Victoria if she would like him to make inquiries about Ben Halim's past as a Spahi? "I've already been to the Governor," replied Victoria.
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 they were appropriate figures in this desert place.
Waltzing like a thing possessed, pelting her lovers with a tempest storm of dragees, standing on the head of a gigantic Spahi en tableau amid a shower of fireworks, improvising slang songs, and chorused by a hundred lusty lungs that yelled the burden in riotous glee as furiously as they were accustomed to shout "En avant!" in assault and in charge, Cigarette made amends to herself at night for her vain self-sacrifice of the fete-day.
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