rid plains beyond, where the low bushes bent in
the chilly breeze. I thought of London--only a few days' journey
from me--revelled for a moment in my situation, which, contrary to my
expectation, was rather emphasised by the presence of my companions. The
gorgeous Spahi, with his scarlet cloak and hood, his musket and sword,
his high red leggings, the ragged, sweating captive in his patched
burnous, ex-butcher looking, despite his cord emblem of bondage, like
reigning Emperor--they were appropriate figures in this desert place. I
had just thought this, and was regarding my Sackville Street suit with
disgust, when a low, distinct and near sound suddenly rose from behind a
sand dune on my left. It was exactly like the dull beating of a tom-tom.
The silence preceding it had been intense, for the breeze was as yet too
light to make more than the faintest sighing music, and in the gathering
darkness this abrupt and gloomy noise produced, I supposed, by some
hidden nomad, made a very unpleasant, even sinister impression upon me.
Instinctively I put my hand on the revolver which was slung at my side
in a pouch of gazelle skin. As I did so, I saw the Spahi turn sharply
and gaze in the direction of the sound, lifting one hand to his ear.

The low thunder of the instrument, beaten rhythmically and persistently,
grew louder and was evidently drawing nearer. The musician must be
climbing up the far side of the dune. I had swung round to face him, and
expected every moment to see some wild figure appear upon the summit,
defining itself against the cold and gloomy sky. But none came.
Nevertheless, the noise increased till it was a roar, drew near till it
was actually upon us. It seemed to me that I heard the sticks striking
the hard, stretched skin furiously, as if some phantom drummer were
stealthily encircling us, catching us in a net, a trap of horrible,
vicious uproar. Instinctively I threw a questioning, perhaps an
appealing, glance at my two companions. The Spahi had dropped his hand
from his ear. He stood upright, as if at attention on the parade-ground
of Biskra. His face was set--afterwards I told myself it was fatalistic.
The murderer, on the other hand, was smiling. I remember the gleam
of his big white teeth. Why was he smiling? While I asked myself the
question the roar of the tom-tom grew gradually less, as if the man
beating it were walking rapidly away from us in the direction of
Sidi-Massarli. None of us said a word t