“That night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never seen before. The desert wine had gone to the lad’s brain. That was certain. No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice. No reminiscences of the Oxford ‘High’ clung about the manner. A man sober and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the ‘Rendezvous des Amis’ that night. I knew in a moment that the aumônier was right, and that I must get the lad away at once from the intoxicant which nature poured out over this far-away city. His eyes were shining feverishly, and when I mentioned Mr. Ruskin in a casual way he looked unutterably bored. “‘Ruskin and all those fellows seem awfully slow and out of place here,’ he exclaimed. ‘One doesn’t want to bother about them in the Sahara.’ “I changed the subject. “‘There doesn’t seem very much to see here,’ I said carelessly. ‘We might get away the day after to-morrow, don’t you think?’ “He drew his brows down. “‘The horses won’t be sufficiently rested,’ he said curtly. “‘Oh yes; I fancy they will.’ “‘Well, I don’t fancy I shall. The long ride took it out of me.’ “‘Turn in to-night, then, directly after dinner.’ “He looked at me with sharp suspicion. I met his gaze blandly. “‘I mean to,’ he said after a short pause. “I knew he was telling me a lie, but I only said: ‘That’s right!’ and resolved to keep an eye on him. “Directly dinner was over he sprang up from the table. “‘Good-night,’ he said. “And before I could reply he was out of the _salle-à-manger_; and I heard him tramp along the brick floor of the passage, go into his room, and bang the door. “The aumônier was getting up from his little table, and shaking the crumbs from his soutane. “‘You are quite right, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘I must get my friend away.’ “‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ replied the good priest. ‘But—desert air, desert air!’ “He shook his head, half wistfully, half laughingly, bowed, put on his broad-brimmed black hat, and went out. “After a moment I followed him. I stood in the doorway of the inn, and lit a cigar. I knew Marnier was not going to bed, and meant to catch him when he came out, and join him. In common politeness he could scarcely refuse my company, since he had asked me as a favour to let him come with me to Beni-Kouidar. I waited, watching the moon rise, till my cigar was smoked out. Then I lit another. Still he did not come. I heard the distant throb of tomtoms beyond the Bureau Arabe in the quarter of the freed negroes. They were having a fantasia. I began to think that I must have been mistaken, and that Marnier had really turned in. So much the better. The ash dropped from the stump of my second cigar, and the deserted camel market was flooded with silver from the moon-rays. I knew there was only one door to the inn. Slowly I lit a third cigar.