wished to
help. Any other thought of her would mean ruin.

Before dawn they were called, and started as the sun showed over the
horizon.

So they ran into the western country, near to the Morocco border. Dull
at first, save for its flooding flowers, soon the way wound among dark
mountains, from whose helmeted heads trailed the long plumes of white
cascades, and whose feet--like the stone feet of Egyptian kings in
ruined temples--were bathed by lakes that glimmered in the depths of
gorges.

It was a land of legends and dreams round about Tlemcen, the "Key of the
West," city of beautiful mosques. The mountains were honeycombed with
onyx mines; and rising out of wide plains were crumbling brown
fortresses, haunted by the ghosts of long-dead Arabs who had buried
hoards of money in secret hiding-places, and died before they could
unearth their treasure. Tombs of kings and princes, and koubbahs of
renowned marabouts, Arab saints, gleamed white, or yellow as old gold,
under the faded silver of ancient olive trees, in fields that ran red
with blood of poppies. Minarets jewelled like peacocks' tails soared
above the tops of blossoming chestnuts. On low trees or bushes, guarding
the graves of saints, fluttered many-coloured rags, left there by
faithful men and women who had prayed at the shrine for health or
fortune; and for every foot of ground there was some wild tale of war or
love, an echo from days so long ago that history had mingled
inextricably with lore of fairies.

Nevill was excited and talkative as they drove into the old town, once
the light of western Algeria. They passed in by the gateway of Oran, and
through streets that tried to be French, but contrived somehow to be
Arab. Nevill told stories of the days when Tlemcen had queened it over
the west, and coined her own money; of the marabouts after whom the most
famous mosques were named: Sidi-el-Haloui, the confectioner-saint from
Seville, who preached to the children and made them sweetmeats; of the
lawyer-saint, Sidi Aboul Hassan from Arabia, and others. But he did not
speak of Josette Soubise, until suddenly he touched Stephen's arm as
they passed the high wall of a garden.

"There, that's where _she_ teaches," he said; and it was not necessary
to add a name.

Stephen glanced at him quickly. Nevill looked very young. His eyes no
longer seemed to gaze at far-away things which no one else could see.
All his interests were centred near at hand.

"Don't you