fore the wars, half a tribe once stopped on Beni Yeb and made a crop."
"Do you think we'll have to fight them?"
"Can't tell. Old Tabira may want to ease his soul by killing a few Christians. He's a hadji now—a holy man; spent twenty-two years going to Mecca. See those children? They were born on the pilgrimage."
All of this was very curious, and tensely interesting to Colonel Spottiswoode. They sat their horses together, watching the half-orderly mob which pressed onward with the sun shining in their faces.
"I say, Spottiswoode"—Cameron spoke out suddenly, and earnestly—"can you imagine what it means to spend twenty-two years in that solitude, brooding on religion? A man goes daft with a fanatical, murderous madness. Can't you see how old Tabira might fancy himself inspired to run amuck with his tribe, and send a few Christians ahead of him to Paradise?"
The Nigerines continued to move across the empty sands, like figures cut out of card-board. The Sheikh Tabira, with the squeezed face, rode a tall camel, wearing an enormous white turban on his head. His long spear, held upright, reached to the ground. He muttered to himself, as one in an ecstatic trance. Ten paces behind their sheikh rode a rank of other blacks on ex-
