gers.

The dancers came and went. They were amazing trollops, painted until,
like the picture of Balzac's madman, they were chaotic, a mere mess of
frantic colours. Not for these, I thought, did Smain play his flute. The
time wore on. I grew drowsy in the keef-laden air, despite the incessant
uproar of the pipes. Suddenly I started--Safti had touched me.

"There is Oreida, Sidi."

I looked, and saw a lonely dancer entering from the court, large, weary,
crowned with gold, tufted with feathers, wrinkled, with greedy, fatigued
eyes, and hands painted blood-red. She was like an idol in its dotage.
Over her spreading bosom streamed multitudes of golden coins, and many
jewels shone upon her wrists, her arms, her withered neck. She advanced
slowly, as if bored, until she was in the midst of the crowd. Then
she wriggled, stretched forth her hands, slowly stamped her feet, and
promenaded to and fro, occasionally revolving like a child's top that is
on the verge of "running down."

"That is not Oreida," I said to Safti, smiling at his absurd mistake.
For this was the oldest and ugliest dancer of them all.

"Indeed, Sidi, it is. Ask the Caid."

I asked that enormous potentate, who was devouring the withered lady
with his eyes. He wagged his head in assent. Just then the dancer paused
before us, and thrusting forward her greasy forehead, enveloped us with
a sphinx-like smirk. As I hastily pressed a two-franc piece above her
eyebrows Safti addressed her animatedly in Arabic. I caught the word
"Smain." The lady smiled, and made a guttural reply; then, with a
somnolent wink at me, she waddled onward, flapping the blood-red hands
and stamping heavily upon the earthen floor.

"Smain loves that!" I said to Safti.

"Yes, Sidi. Oreida is famous, and very rich. She has houses and many
palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers."

A week later Safti and I were again at Sidi-Matou, on our way homeward
through the desert. The moon was at the full now, and when we rode up to
the Bordj the open space in front of it, between us and the village,
was flooded with delicate light. Against it one tree, which looked
like Paderewski grown very old, stood up with tousled branches. In
the village bonfires flared, and the dark figures of skipping children
passed and re-passed before them. We heard youthful cries echoing across
the sands. Soon they faded. The lights went out, and the wonderful
silence of night in the desert came in