When I had finished dinner I lit a cigar. I was now quite alone in the bare _salle-à-manger_. The storm was at its height; the sand was driven like hail against the wooden shutters of the windows, and I felt dreary enough. The French driver was no doubt supping in the kitchen with the landlord, perhaps beside a fire, I began to long for company, for warmth, and I resolved to join them. I opened the door, therefore, and peered out into the passage. There was no sound of voices; but I saw a light at a little distance, went towards it, and found myself in a small kitchen, where the landlord was sitting alone by a red wood fire in the midst of his pots and pans, smoking a thin black cigar, and reading a dirty number of the _Journal Anti-Juif_ of Algiers. He put it down politely as I came in. “You’re alone, monsieur,” I said. “Yes, m’sieu. The driver has gone to see to the horses.” I offered him one of my Havanas, which he accepted with alacrity, and drew up with him before the fire. “You have been living here long, monsieur?” “Twenty years, m’sieu.” “Twenty years alone in this desert place!” “Nineteen years alone, m’sieu. Before that I had my little Marie.” “Marie?” “My child, m’sieu. She is buried in the sand behind the inn.” I looked at him in silence. His brown, wrinkled face was calm, but in his prominent eyes there was still the hot shining look I had observed in them when I arrived. “The palms begin there,” he added. “Year by year I have saved what I could, and now I have bought all the palm-trees near where she lies.” He puffed away at his Havana. “You come from France?” I asked presently. “From the Midi--I was born at Cassis, near Marseille.” “Don’t you ever intend to go back there?” “Never, m’sieu. Would you have me desert my child?” “But,” I said gently, “she is dead.” “Yes; but I have promised her that her _bon papa_ will lie with her presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!” A sudden look of horror came into his face. “You don’t like the Arabs?” “Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?” “Only that your name was Fin Tireur.’” “‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.” “You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?” He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold. “Oh! they don’t call me ‘Fin Tireur’ because I can hit gazelle, and bring them home for supper. No, no! Shall I tell you why?” He looked at me half defiantly, half wistfully, I thought. “But if I do, perhaps your stomach will turn against the food I cooked with these hands,” he added suddenly, stretching out his hands towards me, “You are English, m’sieu?” “Yes.” “Then I daresay you won’t understand.” “I think I shall,” I answered, looking full at him. The way he had spoken of his child had drawn me to him. Whatever he had done, I felt that chivalry and tenderness were in this man.