Two French men-of-war lay far out in the bay. A trail of black smoke showed where another steamed eastward with invalids from Casablanca to Oran. But neither of the three was the _Diomède_; he knew her squat turrets among a thousand. He gave a pessimistic little sigh. Instead of the jovial evening out at Awara under canvas, they would have the hot discomforts of an hotel and a fifteen-mile ride in the dawning to sap their energies before the day's sport began. He looked up with discontent at the westering sun. It appeared to be sinking towards the horizon with almost indecent haste. He pulled out another cigarette and lounged lazily along the plank, watching the traffic of the pier and shore in _blasé_ indifference. Just below him half a dozen _barcasses_ were being filled with stout, squat little cattle, destined for food for the weary troops of Ber Rechid and El Setat. The bullocks were being goaded up an incline of planks and tumbled roughly into the unwieldy lighters, and as these were filled a little tug fussed up and towed them by threes to the waiting steamer of the Compagnie Mixte. And here the sufferings of the bullocks deepened from mere discomfort to the fine edge of tragedy. In twos they were lassoed round the horns. The steam winch aboard the steamer crashed, and with straining necks and starting eyes the unfortunate beasts were rushed up through the air and swung with terrifying speed down into the hold. They were near enough for him to see through his binoculars the strained mute agony of fear in the eyes of each brute as it swung. And there was a dog on board. Each time as the living load passed within reach of its leap, it sprang into the air and made its teeth meet in the helpless flesh. And the stevedores applauded and goaded him to further efforts. Finally the horns of one struggling animal broke. There was a hoarse laugh as it fell, to break other bones, no doubt, in the depths of the hold, or to mutilate some former comrade below. Aylmer turned away with a shrug of sickened disgust. What a land of cruelty it was, of grinding cruelty which spared neither man, woman, nor child, and certainly no beast! He turned his glance shorewards to avoid seeing the tragedy of the bullocks repeat itself. As he did so he gave a start of suddenly aroused interest. Rapidly nearing him was a man whom he recognized. He was the hawk-nosed, swarthy son of the desert who had flung the carnation at the American child's feet. He was walking rapidly, smiling, talking in a quick undertone to another child, one who trotted at his side happily enough--born of his own people, this--a little Moor, clad in a tiny bournous and a hooded _djelab_ of brown. They were making for the steps which led down from Aylmer's side to the huddle of rowboats which awaited chance fares below.