It was our last chat together, and I had been thanking him for the lucky shot that had knocked over the Arab who had pinned me down.
“Zut!” he replied, laughing. “Eh bien, old fellow! It was the only man among old Absalam’s gang that I could pot. If they had given me a chance, I would have bagged one or two more, but, diable! they didn’t.”
“No,” I replied. “They apparently fired point blank at you.”
“I don’t know why they were so particularly malicious towards me. But there, I suppose it’s only my usual bad luck,” and he smiled grimly. “One thing is certain, however, we shall not be troubled by old Absalam again for some time.”
“Do you think we have entirely broken up his band?”
“No. His people are born marauders, and will continue to plunder and murder until he is captured or shot. He will break out in a fresh place before long. Strange that we can never catch him! He really seems to lead a charmed existence.”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s a clever old villain.” Then I commenced to talk to him of his return to France.
“I shall never go back,” he snapped, frowning. “Have I not already told you that I have no further interest in life among the people I once knew? When now and then we are quartered in Algiers, its civilisation palls upon me and carries me back to days I am trying to forget. I’m a social outsider; a fugitive from justice. If I cleared myself, it would be at the cost of her happiness—why should I go back?”
“But you don’t intend to spend the remainder of your days here, in the desert, do you?” I asked.
“Why not? We Spahis have a saying, ‘Attaslim éhire, rafík’!” (“Resignation is the best companion.”) Then, grasping my hand and looking seriously into my eyes, he added, “There is but one thing that troubles me. Violet!—Violet herself believes that I am her cousin’s murderer!”