Gabès, the European quarter and the native quarter. (Photos by Soler, Tunis)

      They were no more than three or four steps from the meeting place when a Targui who seemed to be awaiting someone suddenly rushed up to them.

      The street (or rather, the road) that angled off toward the bordj was deserted at this moment, and Djemma and her comrades had only to follow it for a few minutes and go up a narrow side street to reach the gourbi, or shack, that was their destination.

      The man went straight up to Ahmet and held up his hand to stop them.

      “Don’t go any farther,” he said.

      “What’s the matter, Horeb?” asked Ahmet, who had recognized the newcomer as a member of his Tuareg tribe.

      “Our comrades have left the gourbi.”

      The old mother stopped, and in a voice filled with anxiety and anger she asked Horeb, “Do those Frenchie dogs suspect something?”

      “No, Djemma,” he replied, “and neither do the guards at the bordj.”

      “Then why aren’t our comrades still at the gourbi?”

      “Because some soldiers on leave came and asked for something to drink, and we didn’t want to stay with them. One of them was Nicol, the cavalry sergeant. He knows you, Djemma.”

      “Yes,” she muttered. “He saw me there, at our camp, when my son was captured by his captain. Ah! That captain! If I ever …”

      And from her throat came a sound like the roar of a wild beast.

      “Where will we find our comrades?” asked Ahmet.

      “Come with me,” replied Horeb. Taking the lead, he slipped through a little palm grove and headed toward the fort.

      This thicket was deserted at that hour and came to life only on the days when the main market in Gabès was open. There was every chance, then, that they would not meet anyone else between there and the fort, which of course would be impossible to enter. The fact that members of the garrison had been granted Sunday leave was no reason to assume that there would be no one on sentry duty.

      In fact, security would be all the tighter while the rebel Hadjar was a prisoner in the fort and until he had been transferred to the cruiser and handed over to military justice.

      Walking under cover of the trees, the little group came to the edge of the palm grove.

      There was a cluster of some twenty huts at that spot, and a few beams of light were filtering through their narrow openings. The rendezvous point was now no more than a gunshot away.

      But hardly had Horeb started along a winding little street when the sound of footsteps and voices made him stop. A dozen soldiers—spahis—were coming toward them, singing and shouting under the influence of the libations of which they had been partaking, too freely perhaps, in the nearby cabarets.

      Ahmet thought it best to avoid meeting them, and drew back with the others into a dark recess near the French-Arab school to let them go past.

      There was a well there, with a wooden framework over it to hold the winch that raised and lowered the bucket.

      In an instant they had all taken refuge behind the coping of the well, which was high enough to hide them completely.

      The soldiers kept coming on, then stopped, and one of them shouted, “My God, I’m thirsty.”

      “Have a drink, then. There’s a well here,” said Sergeant Nicol.

      “What? Water, Sergeant?” exclaimed Corporal Pistache.

      “Pray to Mohammed. Perhaps he’ll turn the water into wine.”

      “Ah! If I could be sure of that!”

      “You’d convert to Islam?”

      “No, Sergeant, of course not. Anyway, since Allah forbids his followers to drink wine, he would never agree to perform a miracle like that for nonbelievers.”

      “That’s logical, Pistache,” said the sergeant. “Now, let’s get back to our post.”

      But just as the soldiers were about to follow him, he stopped them.

      Two men were coming up the street, and the sergeant recognized them as a captain and a lieutenant from his own regiment.

      “Halt,” he ordered, and his men raised their hands to their fezes in a salute.

      “Well,” said the captain, “if it isn’t Nicol.”