“Daughter,” said the marabout, “there is but one God.”

“Yes,” she replied, “but He has many prophets, and, of them all, you are the most beautiful,” and she went on.

An officer of spahis rode in and, stopping his horse before the arched door of the commandant, stood motionless.  The square was filled with color, with life, with foreignness, with the dancing flames, the leaping shadows, the fumes of the cook-pots, the odor of Arabian tobacco, the clamor of all the dialects of North Africa.

A bugle sounded.  Out of a side street trotted a cavalcade.  The iron shoes of the horses rang on the pavement, and the steel chains of the curbs tinkled.  The commandant dismounted and gave his bridle to his orderly.

The commandant walked through the square.  He wore a fatigue cap, a sky-blue blouse, with white loopings, white breeches, tight at the knee, and patent-leather boots, with box spurs.  He walked through the square slowly, smoking cigarette after cigarette.  He was not only the commandant but he was the commissioner of police.  With seventy men he ruled ten thousand, and he knew his weakness.  The knowledge of his weakness was his strength.

As he walked through the square he met Mirza.  He passed her without a sign of recognition and she, on her part, was looking at the minaret of the mosque.

In their official capacities they were strangers.  On certain occasions, when the commandant was in mufti they had, at least, passed the time of day.  The commandant walked through the long rows of fires, speaking to a merchant here, nodding to a date-grower there, casting quick glances and saying nothing to the spies who, mingling with the people, sat about the kouss-kouss pots, and reported to the commandant, each morning, the date set for his throat-cutting.  This was many years ago, before there was a railroad to Biskra.

The commandant, having made the round of the fires, crossed over to his house under the arcades.  He dismissed the sergeant and the guard, and they rode away to the barracks, the hoof-beats dying in the distance.  The spahi remained, silent, motionless.  The commandant was about to enter his door, when a man sprang from behind one of the pillars of the arcade and held out to him a paper.  The commandant put his hands behind his back.  The spahi edged his horse up closely.

“Who are you?” asked the commandant, in French.

The man shook his head, but still held out the paper.

“Who are you?” asked the commandant again, but now in Arabic.

“I am Ali, the slave of Abdullah,” answered the man, “and he sends you this letter.”

The commandant remained motionless.  “Will your horse stand, corporal?” he asked of the spahi.

“Perfectly, my colonel.”

“Leave him, then,” said the commandant, “and bring one of your pistols.”

The spahi gathered his long blue cloak off the quarters of his horse, took a revolver from its holster, swung his right leg over his horse’s head, so that he might not for an instant turn his back, threw the reins over his horse’s neck, brought the heels of his red boots together, saluted, and stood silent.