“No,” I replied, smiling. “But I have lived for many moons among thy clansmen, and have wandered far and wide in this thy Land of the Sun.”
My remark interested them, and was received with muttered satisfaction. As I wore European dress, I knew they viewed me with considerable suspicion.
“Hast thou travelled in the Great Desert?” the old man asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “With the caravans I have been over the Areg and the Sahara, and,” laughing, I added, “I have managed to escape from the clutches of Hadj Absalam—”
“Cursed be his name! May Allah never show him mercy!” interrupted the dark-faced man, who was smoking quietly beside me. I turned, surprised at such a vehement denunciation.
“I heard a rumour at Constantine the other day,” remarked my interrogator, “that his men have recently raided the caravan of Ali Ben Hafiz, and massacred the whole party.”
“That is quite correct,” I replied. “I was with them, and because of my Faith my life was spared so that I might be tortured. But I escaped, and returned hence.”
“Praise be unto the Prophet who hast preserved thee!” he said devoutly. “Indeed, Absalam’s people are a terror to all. Our brother Ali Ben Hafiz—may Allah show him mercy—was very well known here.”
“Yes. Very well known,” echoed half a dozen guttural voices.
“He often played damma here,” continued the old Arab, “and no man was more respected in the Kasbah than he.” Then, raising himself and pointing to the end of the low-roofed café, where on the walls hung grotesquely-executed texts from the Korân and gaudily-coloured pictures of the city of Mecca, he added, “See there! once while he was smoking in this kahoua, a Roumi who chanced to come in drew that portrait. Dost thou recognise him?”