was an Arab douar of some eight or ten tents.

I had come down from the north to hunt lion. My party consisted

of a dozen children of the desert--I was the only "white" man. As

we approached the little clump of verdure I saw the man come from

his tent and with hand-shaded eyes peer intently at us. At sight

of me he advanced rapidly to meet us.

"A white man!" he cried. "May the good Lord be praised! I have

been watching you for hours, hoping against hope that THIS time

there would be a white man. Tell me the date. What year is it?"

And when I had told him he staggered as though he had been struck

full in the face, so that he was compelled to grasp my stirrup

leather for support.

"It cannot be!" he cried after a moment. "It cannot be! Tell me

that you are mistaken, or that you are but joking."

"I am telling you the truth, my friend," I replied. "Why should

I deceive a stranger, or attempt to, in so simple a matter as the

date?"

For some time he stood in silence, with bowed head.

"Ten years!" he murmured, at last. "Ten years, and I thought that

at the most it could be scarce more than one!" That night he told

me his story--the story that I give you here as nearly in his own

words as I can recall them.

I

TOWARD THE ETERNAL FIRES

I WAS BORN IN CONNECTICUT ABOUT THIRTY YEARS ago. My name is David

Innes. My father was a wealthy mine owner. When I was nineteen

he died. All his property was to be mine when I had attained my

majority--provided that I had devoted the two years intervening in

close application to the great business I was to inherit.

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