I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically handing another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night’s acquaintance, an acquaintance which I shall not easily forget.
In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly formed. The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my two attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I carried with me on a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi, who spoke French fairly well. He told me that he was on the way to El Arba, a long journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that his business was to convey there the man at the end of the cord.
“But what is he? A prisoner?” I asked.
“A murderer, monsieur,” the Spahi replied calmly.
I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent.
“Does he understand French?”
“A little.”
“And he committed murder?”
“At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man’s throat.”
“Why?”