The Desert Drum | Page 3

his passion for Aïchouch, his desire to be near
her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him sincerely.
"What is his name?" I asked.
"M'hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said."
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.
"Monsieur is going for a walk?" asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my
cigar.
"Yes."
"I will accompany monsieur."
"Or monsieur's cigar-case," I thought.
"But that poor fellow," I said, pointing to the murderer. "He is tired
out."
"That doesn't matter. He will come with us."
The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over
the sand behind us like some exhausted animal.
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'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.
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.
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.
"And where is monsieur going?"
"Only over that hill for a moment."
"I will accompany monsieur."
"But you must be tired. A cup of----"
"I will accompany monsieur."
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.
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.

II
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--only a few days'
journey from me--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--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