The Immoralist
it of his own accord, was a big boy about fourteen years old, as black as a Soudanese and not in the least shy. His name was Ashour. I should have thought him handsome, but that he was blind of one eye. He liked talking; told me where the river came from, and that after running through the public gardens, it flowed into the oasis, which it traversed from end to end. As I listened to him, I forgot my fatigue. Charming as I thought Bachir, I knew him too well by now, and I was glad of a change. I even promised myself to come to the gardens all alone another day and sit on a bench and wait for what some lucky chance might bring.…
After a few more short rests, Ashour and I arrived at my door. I wanted to invite him to come in, but I was afraid to, not knowing what Marceline would say.
I found her in the dining-room, busied over a very small boy, so frail and sickly looking that my first feeling was one of disgust rather than pity. Marceline said rather timidly:
"The poor little thing is ill."
"It's not infectious, I hope. What's the matter with him?"
"I don't exactly know yet. He complains of feel-
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