The Desert Drum | Page 2

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'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--by this time, I, too, was on my way--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'oud, who I was and where I hailed
from.
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'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:
"Give me a cigarette, Sidi."
I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically
handing another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night's acquaintance,
an acquaintance which I shall not easily forget.
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.
"But what is he? A prisoner?" I asked.
"A murderer, monsieur," the Spahi replied calmly.
I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with
one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent.
"Does he understand French?"
"A little."
"And he committed murder?"
"At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man's throat."
"Why?"
"I don't know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis in
the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in
prison."
"And why are you taking him to El Arba?"
"He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live any
more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a
dancing-girl, 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."

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