Before the ship lay fairly in harbour, brown men had climbed on board
from little boats, demanding to be given charge of the passengers' small
luggage, which the stewards had brought on deck, and while one of these
was arguing in bad French with Stephen, a tall, dark youth beautifully
dressed in crimson and white, wearing a fez jauntily on one side,
stepped up with a smile. "_Pardon, monsieur_," he ventured. "_Je suis le
domestique de Monsieur Caird._" And then, in richly guttural accents, he
offered the information that he was charged to look after monsieur's
baggage; that it was best to avoid _tous ces Arabes la_, and that
Monsieur Caird impatiently awaited his friend on the wharf.
"But you--aren't you Arab?" asked Stephen, who knew no subtle
differences between those who wore the turban or fez. He saw that the
good-looking, merry-faced boy was no browner than many a Frenchman of
the south, and that his eyes were hazel; still, he did not know what he
might be, if not Arab.
"_Je suis Kabyle, monsieur; Kabyle des hauts plateaux_," replied the
youth with pride, and a look of contempt at the shouting porters, which
was returned with interest. They darted glances of scorn at his
gold-braided vest and jacket of crimson cloth, his light blue sash, and
his enormously full white trousers, beneath which showed a strip of pale
golden leg above the short white stockings, spurning the immaculate
smartness of his livery, preferring, or pretending to prefer, their own
soiled shabbiness and freedom.
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