The wild turbulence of that terrible night was succeeded by a peaceful,
brilliant dawn.
Already my comrades were preparing to move south, for immediately upon
the conclusion of the fight, messengers had been hastily despatched to
overtake the commandant, and the detachment would also move on after the
Chasseurs at sunset, as the unburied bodies of the marauders would
prevent them remaining longer on the Meskam.
My wound--a deep laceration of the flesh where an Arab's bullet had
grazed me--proving more painful than at first, I had decided to
accompany the messenger who, with an escort, would leave the camp at
sundown to travel due north by way of Zaouia Timassanin and over the
barren Areg, bearing the intelligence of the annihilation of the
marauders to the headquarters of the Spahis at Tuggurt. For some time I
was undecided whether to remain with the military post, or return to
civilisation. It was six months since I had left Oran, and for the
greater part of that time I had been travelling. I was by no means
tired of life in the desert, but the recollection that the mysterious
Zoraida intended to perform a pilgrimage to the popular shrine on the
outskirts of Algiers, and that if I went south to Zamlen as I had
intended, I should certainly lose all chance of seeing her again, caused
my decision to recross the Atlas and return.
Late that afternoon, while the glaring sun blazed down upon the
motionless bodies of the marauders over which the great dark vultures
now hovered, I sat in Uzanne's tent. Stretched upon the ground, my
friend, half-dressed, lay with his head upon his saddle. The wound in
his shoulder had been roughly bandaged, pending an examination by the
surgeon who had gone south with the Chasseurs, and although his bronzed
face was a trifle paler, he nevertheless wore an air of utter
carelessness.
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 ehire, rafik_'!"
("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!"
I was silent. How strange it was that I should meet here, so far
removed from civilisation as we in Europe know it, a man who held a
secret which, if made known, would cause one of the greatest scandals
that has ever shocked Society! How bitter were his thoughts; how
utterly wrecked was his life! in order that a leader of smart Paris--a
woman over whose beauty London had raved--should live in blissful
happiness with her husband, this man was leading an aimless, hopeless
life, condemned by his friends as a coward and a criminal.
He noticed my look of sympathy, and pressed my hand a trifle harder.
"I do not usually wear my heart on my sleeve," he said, at last.
"Indeed, I have told my secret to no one beside yourself; therefore
consider what I have said is in confidence. You are returning to the
world I have so ignominiously left, and in all probability we shall not
meet again. If we do, and you require a friend, remember you will find
him in the Spahi, Octave Uzanne."
"A thousand thanks," I said. "You, who have saved me from an Arab's
sword, may always rely upon my devoted friendship. Expressions of vague
regret are useless. A stout heart, a clear conscience, and a fixed
determination may accomplish many difficulties--they may even effect
one's social resurrection--one's--"
"With me, never," he interrupted, despondently. "But see! your horse is
ready," he added, glancing at the tent door, before which a soldier
stood, holding the fine Ku-hai-lan that Zoraida had given me. "You will
have a long ride to-night, and the dispatches cannot wait. You must
go."
"Then adieu," I said, rising and shaking his sun-tanned hand heartily.
"I hope you'll soon be right again. Till we meet, _au revoir_."
He smiled rather sorrowfully, and his dark eyes wore a wistful look.
But it was only momentary. "_Bon voyage_," he said, gaily. "Accept the
good wishes of an outcast."
The dispatch-bearer was outside, speaking impatiently and shouting to
remind me that we had a long and fatiguing journey before us; therefore
a few moments later I was in the saddle, and the messenger, six Spahis,
and myself were soon galloping away past the ghastly corpses of Hadj
Absalam's followers and out into the trackless appallingly-silent
wilderness.