He had lived in the desert
since he was fourteen. "Almost a Saharian," I said to him. And during
dinner, and long after dinner we sat talking of the difference
between the Oriental races and the European; of the various Arab
_patois_. He spoke the Tunisean _patois_ and wrote the language
of the Koran, which is understood all over the Sahara and the
Soudan, as well as in Mecca. What interested me, perhaps even more
than the language question, was the wilding's enterprise in attempting
to cultivate the desert. He had already enlarged his estate by the
discovery of two ancient Roman wells, and he had no doubt that all
that part of the desert lying between the three oases could be brought
into cultivation. In ancient times there were not three oases but one;
the wells had been destroyed, and hundreds of thousands of acres had
been laid waste by the Numidians in order, I think he told me, to save
themselves from the Saracens who were following them. He spent eight
months of every year in his oasis, and begged of me, as soon as I had
wearied of Cannes, to take the boat from Marseilles--I suppose it was
from Marseilles--and spend some time with him in the wild.
"Visitors," he said, "are rare. You'll be very welcome.
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