You walk into the country of Islam. Passing through the narrow bazaars, the moon above your head becomes the moon that lit the three Calenders, and the lamps that light the gloom of the booths are the lamps of Aladdin.
The légionnaires swarm here, yet their blue and red dress uniform does not detract from the Oriental charm; they have about them some subtle touch of Africa that blends with the surroundings.
Jacques, followed by his companion, passed through several of the narrow streets till he reached an alley where, at a door set in the wall, he knocked.
The door opened and he went in, leaving Choc to wait for him outside, seated on the ground. Arab dogs came down the alley, saw the stranger, advanced, burbling and bristling, recognized him, and passed on; the rising moon laid a pale finger on the wall-top and from far away across the faint noises of the city came the cry of the priest from the balcony of the minaret calling the faithful to prayer; and now a window opened somewhere and the laughter of a girl, the tinkle-tankle of a guitar, and a snatch of song blew away on the night wind and then snapped off to the closing of the casement.
This was the Spanish quarter of the Moslem town, and perhaps the wickedest; outside the jurisdiction of the Bureau Arabe, and visited only by the shadiest characters among the European population of the place.
Twenty minutes passed and then the door opened and a man came out. He was dressed in mufti, but the alteration in dress did not deceive Choc. He knew his master at once, and, rising, followed him down the alley into the street.
Jacques had made up his mind to escape from the Legion. It was the maddest act of his life.
First of all, he was not an ordinary légionnaire, but a criminal serving for rehabilitation. If he managed to escape he would have to begin life over again without papers. It would be impossible for him to find work in France; he must go to England or some other country where papers were not required. Then, again, he had only to wait two short months and he would secure his rehabilitation and be able to leave the Legion and obtain work.
Though he had started in life as an Apache, Commonsense had been talking to him for the last two years or so, pointing out that a franc made by robbery is not worth two sous made by work. The rate of exchange is always against the criminal; so appalling is it that one may wonder at any man with an ounce of brains doing business on such ruinous terms. Jacques had recognized this, and he had determined, on finding himself his own man again, to take to honest ways.
He was now ruining all the plans he had made for that future so nearly in his grasp. Throwing everything away—for a dog.