over the desert. Steadily the triumphant rose
spread upward in the pale opalescent sky, and broad waves of light
rippled slowly over the wide level plain. The little keen breeze of
the morning, the herald of the dawn that runs ever in front of its
chariot, stirred the branches of the palm trees by the Nile, and
played a moment idly with the flap of a tent door before it passed
onward. Here, some two miles away from cool Assouan, lying out in
the desert, was the Bishareen encampment, and the last small tent
of the long line had its door open, and the flap of the awning
loose, with which the morning wind stopped to play.

Within, seated cross-legged on the scarlet rug and sheepskin which
formed their bed, were two girls braiding their hair before a tiny
square of glass, which each in turn held up for the other.

"How cold the morning is! How I hate to hear the wind shake the
door flaps," one said and shivered.

"Doolga, don't; you are holding the glass all crooked; I cannot see
myself. Why should you feel cold this morning of all others, when
Sheik Ilbrahim dar Awaz is coming to claim you?" returned the
other, and she laughed softly, with her slim fingers busy trying to
bind up and restrain her dusky cloud of hair.

How lovely she was, this young Bishareen, who had looked on the
yearly fall of the Nile but fifteen times--lovely as the tall
slender palm of the oasis, or the gold light on the river at
sunset. Tall and straight, with the stately carriage and proud head
of her race; smooth and supple, with every limb faultlessly moulded
under the clear, lustrous skin.

"Silka, Silka! I cannot marry the Sheik. I am in terror of him.
Help me, save me!"

The little glass fell on the blanket between them. In the warm rose
glow now filling the tent, Doolga's face was ashen-coloured.
Awe-struck and startled Silka gazed wide-eyed upon her. For an
instant the two girls sat staring in silence into each other's
eyes. So much alike they were that one face seemed the reflection
of the other, only there was a bloom, a light, a sweetness on
Silka's that was missing in the other.

"Why?" she breathed after that first startled silence, "what is the
matter, Doolga? Tell me; tell me everything."

She drew nearer her sister, and put one arm round her. The pink
light from without, striking through the tent canvas, touched her
face, showing its delicately-cut, exquisite features and the tender
love filling the eyes.

"I hate the Shei