y would dash after
some toddling boy, catch him by the scalp-lock on his shaved head (left
for the grasp of Azrail the death-angel) and force him to join the
dance.

Mean-faced Kabyle dogs, guarding deserted tents, howled their hatred of
the music, while far away, across desert spaces, jackals cried to one
another. And the scintillating network of stars was dimmed by a thin
veil of sand which the wind lifted and let fall, as Victoria lifted and
let fall the spangled scarf that made her beauty more mysterious, more
desirable, in the eyes of Maieddine.

XXVIII

"In the name of the All-Merciful and Pitiful! We seek refuge with the
Lord of the Day, against the sinfulness of beings created by Him;
against all evil, and against the night, lest they overcome us
suddenly."

It was the Prayer of the Dawn, El Fejur; and Victoria heard it cried in
the voices of the old men of the zmala, early in the morning, as she
dressed to continue her journey.

Every one was astir in the _tente sultane_, behind the different curtain
partitions, and outside were the noises of the douar, waking to a new
day. The girl could not wait for the coffee that Fafann would bring her,
for she was eager to see the caravan that Si Maieddine was assembling.
As soon as she was ready she stole out into the dim dawn, more mystic in
the desert than moon-rise or moon-setting. The air was crisp and
tingling, and smelled of wild thyme, the herb that nomad women love, and
wear crushed in their bosoms, or thrust up their nostrils. The camels
had not come yet, for the men of the douar had not finished their
prayer. In the wide open space where they had watched the dance last
night, now they were praying, sons of Ishmael, a crowd of prostrate
white figures, their faces against the sand.

Victoria stood waiting by the big tent, but she had not much need for
patience. Soon the desert prayer was over, and the zmala was buzzing
with excitement, as it had buzzed when the travellers arrived.

The Soudanese Negroes who had danced the wild dance appeared leading two
white meharis, running camels, aristocrats of the camel world. On the
back of each rose a cage-like bassour, draped with haoulis, striped
rose-colour and purple. The desert beasts moved delicately, on legs
longer and more slender than those of pack-camels, their necks swaying
like the necks of swans who swim with the tide. Victoria thought them
like magnificent, four-legged cousins of ostriches, an