“I desire you to tell me frankly,” said I, “whether this is goat. There are many Italians in Africa, and I shall not blame any man for giving me goat’s flesh. The Hebrew prophets ate it and the Romans; only tell me the truth, for goat is bad for me.” He said it was not goat. Indeed, I believed him, for it was of a large and terrible sort, as though it had roamed the hills and towered above all goats and sheep. I thought of lions, but remembered that their value would forbid their being killed for the table. I again attempted the meal, and he again began: “Timgad is a place——” At this moment a god inspired me, and I shouted, “Camel!” He did not turn a hair. I put down my knife and fork, and pushed the plate away. I said: “You are not to be blamed for giving me the food of the country, but for passing it under another name.” He was a good host, and did not answer. He went out, and came back with cheese. Then he said, as he put it down before me: “I do assure you it is sheep,” and we discussed the point no more. [Sidenote: Timgad] But in the hour that followed we spoke of many things—of the army (which he remembered), of active service (which he regretted, for he had lost half a hand), of money (which he loved), and of the Church—which he hated. He was good to the bottom of his soul. His face was sad. He had most evidently helped the poor, he had fought hard and gained his independence, and there he was under Aurès, in a neglected place a thousand miles away from his own people, talking French talk of disestablishment and of the equality of all opinion before the law. So we talked till the camel (or sheep) was stiff in its plate and cold, and the first glimmer of dawn had begun to sadden the bare room and to oppress the yellow light of the candle. Then he took me to a room, and as I went I saw from a window, beyond a garden he had planted, the awful sight of Timgad, utterly silent and ruined, stretching a mile under the dull morning; and with that sight still controlling me I fell heavily asleep. When the morning came I looked out again from my window and I saw the last of the storm still hurrying overhead, and beneath and before me, of one even grey colour and quite silent, the city of Timgad. There was no one in it alive. There were no roofs and no criers. It was all ruins standing up everywhere: broken walls and broken columns absolutely still, except in one place where some pious care had led the water back to its old channels. There a little fountain ran from an urn that a Cupid held. [Illustration]