“After a _bain de siege_—we both longed for total immersion—and some weak tea, in which I mingled a spoonful of rum, we felt better, but we reposed till dinner, and once again Marnier, in his habitually restrained and critical manner, discussed contemporary literature, and what Plato and Aristotle, judging by their writings, would have been likely to think of it. And once again I felt as if I were in the ‘High’ at Oxford, and was almost inclined to wish that Marnier was the rowdy type of undergrad, who ducks people in water troughs and makes bonfires in quads.” “H’m!” said the doctor gravely. “Better, perhaps, if he had been.” “Much better,” I answered. “At seven o’clock we ate a rather tough dinner in the small, bare _salle-à-manger_, on the red brick floor of which sand grains were lying. Our only companion was a bearded priest in a dirty soutane, the aumônier of Beni-Kouidar, who sat at a little table apart, and greeted our entrance with a polite bow, but did not then speak to us. “When the meal was ended, however, he joined us as we stood at the inn door looking out into the night. A moon was rising above the palms, and gilding the cupolas of the Bureau Arabe on the far side of the Market Square. A distant noise of tomtoms and African pipes was audible. And all down the hill to our left—for the land rose to where the inn stood—fires gleamed, and we could see half-naked figures passing and repassing them, and others squatting beside, looking like monks in their hooped burnouses. “‘You are going out, messieurs?’ said the aumônier politely. “I looked at Marnier. “‘You’re too done up, I expect?’ I said to him. “His face was pale, and he certainly had the demeanour of a tired man. “‘No,’ he answered. ‘I should like to stroll in this wonderful air.’ “I turned to the priest. “‘Yes, monsieur,’ I said. “‘I come here to take my meals, but I live at the edge of the town. Perhaps you will permit me to accompany you for a little way.’ “‘We shall be delighted, and we know nothing of Beni-Kouidar.’ “As we stepped out into the market Marnier paused to light his pipe. But suddenly he threw away the match he had struck. “‘No, it’s a sin to smoke in this air,’ he said. “And he drew a deep breath, looking at the round moon. “The priest smiled. “‘I have lived here for four years,’ he said, ‘and cannot resist my cigar. But you are right. The air of Beni-Kouidar is extraordinary. When first I came here it used to mount to my head like wine.’ “‘Bad for you, Marnier!’ I said, laughing. “Then I added, to the aumônier: “‘My friend never drinks wine, and so ought to be peculiarly susceptible to such an influence.’” II “Opposite to the aumônier’s dwelling was the great dancing-house of the town, and when we had bade him good-night, and turned to go back to the inn, I rather tentatively suggested to Marnier that, perhaps, it would be interesting to look in there for a moment.