ething to attract. Anyhow,
Stanton wouldn't have let this Ahmara dance in a cafe before a crowd of
nomads from the desert. She lives with the dancing lot, because there's
some law or other about that for these girls, but that's all, till
to-night. There's been a row, my old pal told me, because Stanton gives
my lady the tip not to come near or pretend to know him while his friend
the colonel is here. She's in such a beast of a rage she's announced to
the owner of the cafe that she'll dance to-night; and I bet every man in
Touggourt except Stanton and DeLisle'll be there. You'll come, won't
you?"

"Yes, I'll come," said Max. He was ashamed of himself for so readily
believing the scandal about Stanton, yet he did believe it. Stanton had
struck him as the type of man who would stop at nothing he wanted to do.
And Max was ashamed, also, because he felt an involuntary rush of
pleasure in thinking evil of Stanton. He knew what that meant. He had
been jealous of Stanton at Algiers, and he supposed he was mean enough
to be jealous of him still. If Sanda knew the truth, would she be
disgusted and cease to care for her hero, her "Sir Knight?" Max
wondered. But perhaps she would only be sad, and forgive him in her
heart. Girls were often very strange about such things. Max, however,
could not forgive Stanton for ignoring the exquisite blossom of love
that might be his, and grasping instead some wild scarlet flower of the
desert not fit to be touched by a hand that had pressed Sanda's little
fingers. He did not know whether or not to be equally ashamed of the
curiosity which made him say to Pelle that he would see the dancer; but
he yielded to it.

Already the great bare cafe was filling up. In the dim yellow light of
lamps that hung from the ceiling, or branched out from the smoky,
white-washed walls, the throng of dark men in white burnouses, crowding
the long benches or sitting on the floor, was like a company of ghosts.
Their shadows waved fantastically along the walls as they strode
noiselessly in, wild as spirits dancing to the voice of their master
Satan, the seductive raeita. At one end of the room sat the musicians,
all giant negroes, the scars and tattoo marks on their sweating black
faces giving them a villainous look in the wavering light. They were
playing the bendir, the tomtom, the Arab flute, as well as the raeita;
but the raeita laughed the other music down.

This cafe was celebrated for the youth and beauty of