“When I heard the woman cry I took my revolver out. When I saw the woman run I fired, and the bullet struck the veil.” He put the revolver back into his pocket, and sat down again quietly. “And that’s why they call me Fin Tireur.” I said nothing, and sat staring at him. “When the camels had been watered the caravan went on.” “But--but the Arabs------” “The Caïd had the body tied across a donkey--they told me.” “You didn’t see?” “No. I took the little one in. She was screaming, and I had to see to her. It was two days afterwards, when I was at the market, that a scorpion stung her. She was dead when I came back. Well, m’sieu, are you sorry you ate your supper?” Before I could reply, the door opening into the courtyard gaped, and the driver entered, followed by a cloud of whirling sand grains. “_Nom d’un chien!_” he exclaimed. “Get me a tumbler of wine, for the love of God, Fin Tireur. My throat’s full of the sand. _Sacré nom d’un nom d’un nom!_” He pulled off his coat, turned it upside down, and shook the sand out of the pockets, while Fin Tireur went over to the corner of the kitchen where the bottles stood in a row against the earthen wall. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of “Fin Tireur”, by Robert Hichens