disappeared, desert-men with their desert-beasts, bound no doubt on some tremendous journey through the regions of the sun. Where would they at last unlade the groaning camels? Domini saw them in the midst of dunes red with the dying fires of the west. And their shadows lay along the sands like weary things reposing.
She started when a low voice spoke to her in French, and, turning round, saw a tall Arab boy, magnificently dressed in pale blue cloth trousers, a Zouave jacket braided with gold, and a fez, standing near her. She was struck by the colour of his skin, which was faint as the colour of café au lait, and by the contrast between his huge bulk and his languid, almost effeminate, demeanour. As she turned he smiled at her calmly, and lifted one hand toward the wall of rock.
“Madame has seen the desert?” he asked.
“Never,” answered Domini.
“It is the garden of oblivion,” he said, still in a low voice, and speaking with a delicate refinement that was almost mincing. “In the desert one forgets everything; even the little heart one loves, and the desire of one’s own soul.”
“How can that be?” asked Domini.
“Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more.”
His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze.
“What is your name?” Domini asked.
“Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?”
“Yes, Batouch.”
“I too. To-night, under the mimosa trees, I shall compose a poem. It will be addressed to Irena, the dancing-girl. She is like the little moon when it first comes up above the palm trees.”
Just then the train from Beni-Mora ran into the station, and Domini turned to seek her carriage. As she was coming to it she noticed, with the pang of the selfish traveller who wishes to be undisturbed, that a tall man, attended
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