All night, outside Victoria's open but shuttered window, there was a
stealthy stirring of animals in the dark, a gliding of ghostly ducks, a
breathing of sheep and camels. And sometimes the wild braying of a
donkey or the yelp of a dog tore the silence to pieces.
The next day was hot; so that at noon, when they stopped to eat, the
round blot of black shadow under one small tree was precious as a black
pearl. And there were flies. Victoria could not understand how they
lived in the desert, miles from any house, miles from the tents of
nomads; where there was no vegetation, except an occasional scrubby
tree, or a few of the desert gourds which the Arabs use to cure the bite
of scorpions. But she had not seen the cages of bones, sometimes
bleached like old ivory, sometimes of a dreadful red, which told of
wayside tragedies. Always when they had come in sight of a skeleton,
Maieddine had found some excuse to make the girl look in another
direction; for he wanted her to love the desert, not to feel horror of
its relentlessness.
Now for the first time he had full credit for his cleverness as an
organizer. Never before had they been so remote from civilization. When
travelling in the carriage, stopping each night at the house of some
well-to-do caid or adel, it had been comparatively easy to provide
supplies; but to-day, when jellied chicken and cream-cheese, almond
cakes and oranges appeared at luncheon, and some popular French mineral
water (almost cool because the bottles had been wrapped in wet blanket)
fizzed in the glasses, Victoria said that Si Maieddine must have a tame
djinn for a slave.
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