“The next day I rode out with Safti into the desert to visit a sacred personage of great note in the Sahara, Sidi El Ahmed Ben Daoud Abderahmann. To my relief Marnier declined to come. He said he was tired, and would stroll about the city. When we got back at sundown the innkeeper handed me a note. I opened it, and found it was from the aumônier, saying that he would be greatly obliged if I would call and see him on my return, as he had various little curiosities which he would be glad to show me. Marnier was not in the inn, and, as I had nothing particular to do, I walked at once to the aumônier’s house. As I have said, it was the last in the town. The dancing-house was on the opposite side of the way; but the aumônier’s dwelling jutted out a little farther into the desert, and looked full on a deep depression of soft sand bounded by a big dune, which loomed up like a couchant beast in the fading yellow light. “The aumônier met me at his door, and escorted me into a pleasant room, where his collection of Arab weapons, coins, and old vases, cups, and various utensils, dug up, he told me, at Tlemcen, was arranged. But to my surprise he scarcely took time to show it to me before he said: “‘Though a stranger, may I venture to speak rather intimately to you, monsieur?’ “‘Certainly,’ I replied, in some astonishment. “‘Your friend is young.’ “‘Marnier?’ “‘Is that his name? Well, I would not leave him to stroll about too much alone, if I were you.’ “‘Why, monsieur?’ “‘He is likely to get into trouble. The people here are a wild and violent race. He would do well to bear in mind the saying of a traveller who knew the desert men better than most people: “If you want to be friendly with them, and safe among them, give cigarettes to the men, and leave the women alone.” I see a good deal, monsieur, owing to the situation of my little house.’ “I looked at him in silence. Then I said: “‘What have you seen?’ “He led me to the door, and pointed towards the great dune beyond the dancing-house. “‘I saw your friend this afternoon talking there with one whom it is especially unsafe to be seen with in Beni-Kouidar.’ “‘With whom?’ “‘A dancer called Algia.’ “‘Talking, monsieur! Marnier knows no Arabic.’ “The aumônier pursed his lips in his black beard. “‘The conversation appeared to be carried on by signs,’ he responded. ‘That did not make it less but more dangerous.’ “I’m afraid I was rude, and whistled softly. “‘Monsieur l’Aumônier,’ I said, ‘you must forgive me, but this air is certainly the very devil.’ “He smiled, not without irony. “‘I became aware of that myself, monsieur, when first I came to live in Beni-Kouidar. But I am a priest, and—well, monsieur, I was given the strength to say: “Get thee behind me, Satan.”’ “A softer look came into his sunburnt, wrinkled face. “‘Better take your friend away as soon as possible,’ he added, ‘or there will be trouble.’” III