I gazed at him with an admiration I could not repress. There was, indeed, something of the hero about this simple-minded Saharaman. We were at the edge of the oasis, in a remote place looking towards the quivering mirage which guards dead Okba’s tomb. A tiny earthen house, with a flat terrace ending in the jagged bank of the Oued Biskra, was crouched here in the shade. From it emerged a pleasant scent of coffee. Suddenly Safti’s bare legs began to “give.” I felt it would be cruel to push on farther. We entered the house, seated ourselves luxuriously upon a baked divan of mud, set our slippers on a reed mat, rolled our cigarettes, and commanded our coffee. When a Kabyle boy with a rosebud stuck under his turban had brought it languidly, I said to Safti: “And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.” Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of repose. “Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara. “Then tell me how you pass a summer day.” The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke. “_Sahah_, Sidi.” “_Merci._” We sipped. “A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at five in the morning I get up⸺” “And light the fire,” I murmured mechanically. The one eye stared in blank amazement. “Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early.” “The sun rises at a quarter to five.” “To call you. Well?” “I eat three fresh figs, and sometimes four. I then mount upon my mule, and I ride very quietly into Biskra to take coffee with my friends.” “That is half-an-hour’s exercise?” “About half-an-hour. After taking coffee with my friends we play at dominoes. It is forbidden for the Arabs to play at cards in Biskra. I remain in the café at the corner⸺” “I know—by the Garden of the Gazelles!” “—till eleven o’clock, at which time I again mount upon my mule, and return quietly to my home. When I reach there I eat with my wife and children sour milk, bread, and dates from my palm-trees which I have kept from the autumn. At twelve we all go to bed together in a black room.” “A black room?” “We fear the flies.” “I see.” “Till four in the afternoon I, my wife, and my children sleep in the black room. At that hour I rise once more, and go quietly to the Café Maure in old Biskra, near my house. I play cards there for five coffees till seven o’clock. At seven the mosquitoes arrive, and prevent us from playing any more.” “How intrusive! Always at seven?” “Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end of the oasis.” “To the Tombuctou road?” “Yes, Sidi; to get the air. We come back by the same road quietly, and I go to my house, and eat a cold kous-kous with my wife and children. After this I return to the café and play ronda till one o’clock.” “One o’clock at night?”