“And they spoke the word of the Koran to Djeba, and Djeba’s heart turned in his breast. And he said then, ‘My heart can no longer contain a lie. Hark all to the truth. Moa, my brother of the milk--which bond is sacred--Moa, my brother, him I slew with my own hands in that land which is beyond the great water. I slew him, being tricked by a witch-woman. And that witch-woman I was not able to slay! That then is my sin!’ “That then is the sin of Djeba. I have spoken, I, Belkano, who am the son of his son!” In the hush that followed that deep-toned verbal signature my breath whistled small in my throat. “Lord! Lord! Oh, my Lord!” Borak eyed me with a smirk and a grunt. The black fellow showed his shining teeth again. He took another breath into his lungs. “For the length of thirty Ramadans the father of my father has not opened his mouth to any man in speech. Because of that sin, because he would not look at any man, his eyes have become blind. He would not hear, and his ears are deaf. Thus men know that he is holy. So they come for many marches to touch his hand. Sometimes then his lips are opened, and for their ears he will sing again that war-chant of the Yankis. And then those men will give him offerings against his pilgrimage, that he may see Holy Mekka and ease him of that sin and die----” The voice was rising. “They give him offerings of broad copper! They throw down pieces of silver before him! _They throw down gold!_” I heard the wind going out of Borak’s chest at that; an obscure thoracic collapse. A snort. “At last! At last the plot unfolds. Now the old bird will render that popular ditty entitled, ‘The Unwritten War-song of the Wild Yankis of Yankisland,’ and the company will contribute. And strangely enough the ringmaster’s eye is fastened unerringly on _you_.” “For God’s sake, man----” “Yes, but you’ll see,” he persisted. “You’ll note that his toe even now is prodding the old one in the ribs.” It was true. I saw the nudging and peremptory toe. I stared at that lip hanging in the ember-light. I beheld a disorder and quickening of that fleshy pulse. I heard an obedient sound issuing forth. It was a very small, shallow, creaking sound. It emerged from that emotionless mask of senility; it rose and fell in mechanical lengths of tone like a bent wire and went away and was lost in the night of the packed Sahara square. It was a queer chant. “Cock and bull!” grunted Borak. “For God’s sake, man, hush!” I stared and I listened. Yes, it was a very queer chant indeed. The short hairs were beginning to stand up again at the back of my skull. On the ground, red with the firelight, a copper sou was tossed. I saw another fall, and another. I took out my wallet and found a hundred-franc note, and I let it flutter into the circle over the shoulder of Bou Dik. Borak got hold of me. “_Lord!_ I say, now! What’s _that_ for?” “To help and ease him of that ‘sin.’” “But my dear simple chap--all that rigmarole----”