At last Marhoun got the better of his mirth and managed to secure the lost property, but, as can be imagined, the elegant slippers looked like bits of old leather ready for the dust-heap. The kadi began wailing again, and said he would go back, but Marhoun pushed him up the bank and he plodded on.
We soon came to a goat-track and gradually began climbing the steep slopes of the hill. As we rose, the mist closed down upon us and wrapped us in its damp embrace. I could no longer see Madani, and the bash agha was only a dim form before me. The kadi I didn’t need to see as his wail of malediction on motor-cars and excursions, and idiots who could live out in the desert, never ceased.
After an hour or so we reached the summit and gathered together in a ghostly group.
“Not very far now,” said Ali gaily. “Reminds me of winter in the trenches. Eh, Aïssa?”
“Yes, the Vosges,” he replied. “Not too tired, bash agha?”
The old man shook his head and he brushed the drops from his burnous.
“Well, let’s proceed,” said Madani. “We don’t want to be caught by the night.”
“My shoes are full of stones,” moaned the kadi. “Well, take them out,” exclaimed Marhoun.
Without further ado we started along the crest and soon began descending another path. The wind was less fierce on this side of the mountain, but the mist swirled like a great shroud about us. None of us spoke as we plodded on in our dripping burnouses. My mind became a sort of damp blank as I mechanically followed in the procession.
Suddenly the bash agha said to me over his shoulder, “What has become of Miss G., who was in Laghouat for two months this spring?”