himself--a passing into the desert, leaving no trace but the
single fact that on a certain day he had joined a caravan. Going
whither? Timbuctoo? To be slain there--an English traveller seeking
forgetfulness of a cruel mistress--would be a romantic end for him!
But if his end were captivity, slavery? His thoughts turned from
Timbuctoo to one of the many oases between Tunis and the Soudan. In
one of these it would be possible to make friends with an Arab
chieftain and to live. But would she, whose body was the colour of
amber, or the desert, or any other invention his fancy might devise,
relieve him from the soul-sickness from which he suffered? It seemed
to him that nothing would. All the same, he would have to try to
forget her, "Evelyn, Evelyn."

The bournous which his Arab servant brought in at that moment might
help him. A change of language would be a help, and he might become
a Moslem--for he believed in Mohammedanism as much as in
Christianity; and an acceptance of the Koran would facilitate
travelling in the desert. That and a little Arabic, a few mouthfuls,
and no Mahdi would dare to enslave him.... But if he were only sure
that none would!

Outside horses were stamping, his escort, seven Arab horses with
seven Arabs from the desert, or thereabout, in high-pummelled
saddles, wearing white bournous, their brown, lean hands grasping
long-barrelled guns with small carven stocks. The white Arab which
Owen had purchased yesterday waited, the saddle empty; and, looking
at him before mounting, Owen thought the horse the most beautiful
thing he had ever seen, more like an ornament than a live thing, an
object of luxury rather than of utility. Was he really going to ride
this horse for many hours? To do so seemed like making a drudge of
some beautiful woman. The horse's quarters curved like a woman's, a
woman's skin was hardly finer, nor were a woman's wrists and hands,
though she cared for them ever so much, shaping them with files, and
polishing them with powders, more delicate than the fetlock and hoof
of this wonderful horse. Nor was any woman's eye more beautiful, nor
any woman's ears more finely shaped; and the horse's muzzle came to
such a little point that one would have been inclined to bring him
water in a tumbler. The accoutrements were all Arab; and Owen
admired the heavy bits, furnished with many rings and chains, severe
curbs, demanding the lightest handling, without being able to guess
their use. But i