en heaped on a
soup plate.

For a moment she sat gazing at the sand, her lips moving. She looked wan
as old ivory in the dying firelight, and in the hollows of her immense
eyes seemed to dream the mysteries of all ages. "Take a handful of
sand," she said to Victoria. "Hold it over thine heart. Now, wish with
the whole force of thy soul."

Victoria wished to find Saidee safe, and to be able to help her, if she
needed help.

"Put back the sand, sprinkling it over the rest."

The girl, though not superstitious, could not help being interested,
even fascinated. It seemed to her that the sand had a magical sparkle.

M'Barka's eyes became introspective, as if she waited for a message, or
saw a vision. She was as strange, as remote from modern womanhood as a
Cassandra. Presently she started, and began trailing her brown fingers
lightly over the sand, pressing them down suddenly now and then, until
she had made three long, wavy lines, the lower ones rather like
telegraphic dots and dashes.

"Lay the forefinger of thy left hand on any figure in these lines," she
commanded. "Now on another--yet again, for the third time. That is all
thou hast to do. The rest is for me."

She took from some hiding-place in her breast a little old note-book,
bound in dark leather, glossy from constant use. With it came a perfume
of sandalwood. Turning the yellow leaves of the book, covered with fine
Arab lettering, she read in a murmuring, indistinct voice, that sounded
to Victoria like one of those desert voices of which Maieddine had
spoken. Also she measured spaces between the figures the girl had
touched, and counted monotonously.

"Thy wish lies a long way from thee," she said at last. "A long way!
Thou couldst never reach it of thyself--never, not till the end of the
world. I see thee--alone, very helpless. Thou prayest. Allah sends thee
a man--a strong man, whose brain and heart and arm are at thy service.
Allah is great!"

"Tell her what the man is like, cousin," Maieddine prompted, eagerly.

"He is dark, and young. He is not of thy country, oh Rose of the West,
but trust him, rely upon him, or thou art undone. In thy future, just
where thou hast ceased to look for them, I see troubles and
disappointments, even dangers. That is the time, above all others, to
let thyself be guided by the man Allah has sent to be thy prop. He has
ready wit and courage. His love for thee is great. It grows and grows.
He tells thee of it; and thou-