In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly formed. The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my two attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I carried with me on a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi, who spoke French fairly well. He told me that he was on the way to El Arba, a long journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that his business was to convey there the man at the end of the cord. “But what is he? A prisoner?” I asked. “A murderer, monsieur,” the Spahi replied calmly. I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent. “Does he understand French?” “A little.” “And he committed murder?” “At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man’s throat.” “Why?” “I don’t know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis in the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in prison.” “And why are you taking him to El Arba?” “He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live any more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a dancing-girl, Aïchouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the café by the lake. He wanted even to stay in prison, if only he might remain in Tunis. He never saw her, but he was in the same town, you understand. That was something. All the first day he ran behind my horse cursing me for taking him away. But now the sand has got into his throat. He is so tired that he can scarcely run. So he does not curse any more.” The captive giant smiled at me again. Despite his great stature, his powerful and impressive features, he looked, I thought, very gentle and submissive. The story of his passion for Aïchouch, his desire to be near her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him sincerely. “What is his name?” I asked. “M’hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said.” I was weary with riding and wanted to stretch my legs, and see what was to be seen of Sidi-Massarli ere evening quite closed in, so at this point I lit a cigar and prepared to stroll off. “Monsieur is going for a walk?” asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my cigar. “Yes.” “I will accompany monsieur.” “Or monsieur’s cigar-case,” I thought. “But that poor fellow,” I said, pointing to the murderer. “He is tired out.” “That doesn’t matter. He will come with us.” The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over the sand behind us like some exhausted animal.