Max stormed protests for an hour. Sanda was to be married by the
Catholic priest from Touggourt, as early in the morning as he could be
fetched. The great caravan and the little caravan halted for the night.
Stanton harangued his escort in their own various dialects, for there
was no obscure lingo of Africa which he did not know, and this knowledge
gave him much of his power over the black or brown men. The news he
told, explaining the delay, was received with wild shouts of amused
approval. Stanton was allowing some of his head men to travel with their
wives, it being their concern, not his, if the women died and rotted in
the desert. It was his concern only to be popular as a leader on this
expedition for which it had been hard to get recruits. It was fair that
he, too, should have a wife if he wanted one, and the men cared as
little what became of the white girl they had not seen as Stanton cared
about the fate of their strapping females.

The mad music of the tomtoms and raeitas played as Max, with his own
hands, set up Sanda's little tent. "For the last time," he said to
himself. "To-morrow night her tent will be Stanton's."

He felt physically sick as he thought of leaving her in the desert with
that man, whom they called mad, and going on alone to report at
Sidi-bel-Abbes, days after his leave had expired. Now that Sanda was
staying behind, his best excuse was taken from him. He could hear
himself making futile-sounding explanations, but keeping Mademoiselle
DeLisle's name in the background. None save a man present at the scene
he had gone through could possibly pardon him for abandoning his charge.
After all, however, what did it matter? He did not care what became of
him, even if his punishment were to be years in the African penal
battalion, the awful _Bat d'Aff_, a sentence of death in life. "Perhaps
I deserve it," he said. "I don't know!" All he did know was that he
would give his life for Sanda. Yet it seemed that he could do nothing.

When all was quiet he went to his tent and threw himself down just
inside the entrance with the flap up. Lying thus, he could see Sanda's
tent not far away, dim in the starlit night. He could not see her, nor
did he wish to. But he knew she was sitting in the doorway with Stanton
at her feet. Max did not mean to spy; but he was afraid for her, of
Stanton, while that music played. At last he heard her lover in going
call out "good night," then it was no longer necessary to p