Before he slept that night, however, Oman learned something of the personal life of his pathetic little hostess. They were still before the fire, but their talk had grown fitful and full of pauses, when, out of the blackness beyond the open door appeared a man, lean, ill shapen, but well clothed. His face was not good to look upon, and his expression made it worse. In the doorway he halted, apparently not intending to come in, after he had seen Oman. Nor did he speak; but stood still for a moment, looking hard at Poussa. Words from him were unnecessary. Oman and the girl saw him at the same moment, and she, her face instantly losing its tranquil look, sprang to her feet, and, running to the door, saluted the newcomer with profoundest respect. The man snarled some words at her, the purport of which Oman caught. They related to money—apparently a demand to see what she had earned during the day. Poussa fell upon her knees, pleading, in a low tone, that her guardian would refrain from altercation in Oman’s presence. The man seemed to accede to her request, and, after a few words more, the lowered tone of which did not lessen their ugliness, strode off again into the darkness. Oman, relieved at the departure, looked up, prepared to find Poussa smiling again. He was disappointed. The girl finally rose from her knees and came back again. But her head was bent, and her whole attitude one of deep dejection. Indeed, by the glow of the low fire, Oman perceived that slow tears were rolling from her eyes, and that her hands were clasped as if in pain. “Why do you weep? He is gone. You are safe,” he began, half timidly. Poussa looked up at him with eyes full of misery. “Early to-morrow he will come again. And then—I shall be beaten. Oh, I shall be beaten!” “But why—why will he beat you?” he demanded, in astonishment. “Because—no, it is nothing.” She would not speak. Oman took her by the shoulders. “Why will he beat you?” he asked, stupidly. “He is my brother-in-law,” she responded, as if that were quite sufficient to explain any cruelty. “He desired money,” muttered Oman to himself. “Ah—ah—I see! _I_ have no money for you! _I!_” Poussa quivered under his touch, and her answer was only a faint moan. “Oh! Oh! It is unendurable! Do you hear? It is unendurable! Let me go after him! I will tell him.” “No.” The word was firm. “No. He would only beat you. He is master in this village. I am used to it. See, I will not weep—I weep no more. Come, we will sleep now. Let us sleep.”