and Pliny and Cicero. It is only the memory of dead things that is kept by literature and by art; the things themselves, when they are alive, are made to live by such men as those who built Timgad and this other one who understood it because he deals in living realities himself. He is a Roman, and an important one."
"Is he?" Ogle asked curiously. "Important?"
Medjila nodded gravely. "It happened I knew a little about him. When I lived in Rock Island I heard of some undertakings of his that were spoken of in the papers sometimes. He reorganized a street-railway and then a number of factories that made paper. The other day before he went away I told him I remembered, and he was as pleased as a child. I told him, too, that he was a Roman; but he didn't know what to make of that."
"I suppose not," Ogle said; then he looked at his watch, and rose. "I am afraid I must be off. I have to be in Constantine before evening."
Medjila got up also, and shook his burnous loose from a cranny between two stones where it had caught. "We'll walk back to the inn with you if we may," he said, and he nodded to his silent pupil, who jumped up like a well-trained child and accom-
