“But,” I said gently, “she is dead.”
“Yes; but I have promised her that her bon papa will lie with her presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!”
A sudden look of horror came into his face.
“You don’t like the Arabs?”
“Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?”
“Only that your name was Fin Tireur.’”
“‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.”
“You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?”
He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold.
“Oh! they don’t call me ‘Fin Tireur’ because I can hit gazelle, and bring them home for supper. No, no! Shall I tell you why?”