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 TYPT^rtl
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT
 
 FETNEH.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT 
 
 By Agnes Littlejolin 
 
 Author of 
 
 A I,APSE OF Memory," "The Daughter of a Soldier, 
 
 Etc., Etc. 
 
 SYDNEY : 
 
 J. A. PACKER, Pkixter Axn Publisher, 
 
 Castlereagh Street 
 
 1910
 
 
 Dramatis Personae 
 
 Mr. Cleveland 
 
 Miss Seraphina Smythe 
 
 Dick.. 
 
 Cecil Beresford 
 
 John Middleton 
 
 Ibrahim 
 
 An English Gentleman 
 
 . . His Half Sister 
 
 . . His Son 
 
 . His Niece 
 
 A Rich Young Englishman 
 
 An Arab Dragoman 
 
 Mustafa, Ali, and other Arabs of the Caravan 
 
 The Great Solitary Sheikh The Sheikh of all the Sheikhs 
 
 Ahmed Bey . . 
 
 Mahmoud Bey 
 
 Meshow 
 
 Ghudda 
 
 Suleyman ibn Mirshid 
 
 Fetneh 
 
 Yusuf . . 
 
 Nasli . . 
 
 Douhi and His Friend 
 
 Beshara 
 
 . . A Noble Arab Sheikh 
 
 His Cousin 
 
 His Nephew 
 
 Meshow's Foster-Brother 
 
 . . Another Arab Sheikh 
 
 His Daughter 
 
 . . One of His Sons 
 
 . . Fetneh's Black Slave 
 
 Two Smaller Arab Sheikhs 
 
 An Arab, Friend to Meshow 
 
 An Old Bedouin Sheikh, aud other Bedouins 
 
 Scene. 
 
 First in Algiers and afterwards in the Desert 
 
 1'182613
 
 MIRAGE OF THE 
 DESERT 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "In Algiers we meet again," John Middleton 
 isaid eagerly, as he took Cecil's hand in his. 
 
 He glanced quickly at her brilliant face, but 
 found not there what he had sought; and his own 
 face, bright and eager, fell a little, as he turned to 
 greet her cousin. 
 
 "My father got your telegram, Mr. Middleton," 
 said Dick, as they shook hands. "He was so pleased 
 to hear you would go with us to the desert." 
 
 "We delayed our journey," Cecil said, "ex- 
 pecting your arrival by each steamer from
 
 10 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 iMarseilles. Uncle would not start, because he 
 liopecl you might arrive in time to go with us. You 
 were not quite certain when we talked about it on 
 the ship. You said vou had taken the vovage for 
 a holiday after studjang hard in London. We 
 longed for some experience of desert life, and so 
 made up our minds to travel there. Uncle James 
 preferred the Algerian route. He thought that it 
 was wilder, and more interesting." 
 
 Dick had turned aside to speak with an 
 acquaintance who was passing near, and Middleton 
 and Cecil paused, to wait for him. 
 
 "You are in trouble," Cecil said, impulsively, 
 as her sympathetic eyes fell on the band of mourn- 
 ing the young man wore on his arm. 
 
 "I have lately lost my father, and I'm per- 
 plexed and worried. I left the vessel hurriedly 
 because I got a message, recalling me. on account 
 of my father's illness. Miss Beresford, I've an ur- 
 gent reason for my journey — a strange quest in the 
 desert." 
 
 "Will you tell me of it?" 
 
 "One day I will tell you — out upon the desert." 
 They had spoken their last words so softly that 
 
 Dick Cleveland and his friend, who had been chat-
 
 IMIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 11 
 
 ting near them, had not overheard. The boy re- 
 joined them now. 
 
 "Mr. Middleton, of course you'll come home 
 with lis," he suggested cordially, "to see Aunt 
 Seraphina and my father? They're expecting you 
 to call." 
 
 "I shall be most happy, Dick. I've arranged 
 about mj^ luggage and my lodging, and have nothing 
 to detain me. I am glad I met you and your cousin 
 here on landing." 
 
 Middleton had first seen Algiers, with its ter- 
 races, white villas, and palm trees, in the sunny 
 freshness of early morning. The hills and valleys 
 round about Algiers were looking beautiful with 
 their gardens and country seats. The gardens af- 
 forded shade and retirement, and a delightful 
 prospect towards the sea, appearing brilliant in the 
 morning sunshine, with their lovely blossoms and 
 fresh green foliage. The more Avealthy people 
 made their homes here during the summer heat. 
 
 "We have taken one of those detached white 
 villas over there," said Cecil, as they Avalked. 
 
 "I know them," answered Middleton. "Little 
 white houses well shaded with trees." 
 
 "Tangier is simply a region of lovely gardens."
 
 12 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "There's plenty of fruit," said Dick. "Melons 
 and apricots are better than a fine view." 
 
 "How is Miss Smythe?" asked Middleton 
 presently. 
 
 "She is very well, and is enjoying herself im- 
 mensely. She will be pleased at meeting you again." 
 
 "Aunt Seraphina's been busy riding mules, 
 to get ready for the desert." said Dick, with some 
 disgust. " 'Wlien I go to Rome,' says Aunt Sera- 
 phina, 'I make a point of doing as the Romans do!' 
 I wish to goodness she'd learnt to ride on anything 
 at all before she came out here. Even old Brindle, 
 the cow, might have been of use to her ! How ever we 
 shall manage with her on the desert, I don't know. 
 And she's notions, too, about the proper way. The 
 other day I saw her trying to mount her mule. An 
 unwilling and despairing Arab, much puzzled by 
 her teaching, tried to give her the usual mount for a 
 horse, by making for her fairy foot a stirrup with 
 his hands. Each time she mounted on it, it 
 gave way beneath her tread; for she always 
 failed to spring at the right instant; and so, with 
 shrill protests, she came to earth again. But Aunt 
 Seraphina still rides mules as perseveringly as ever!" 
 
 "'Hope springs eternal in the human breast.' " 
 said Middleton. "It has been said that hope dies
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 13 
 
 harder than any quality of the heart. By the b,Ye, 
 what became of that young parson who v\'as so at- 
 tentive to your aunt on board the ship?" 
 
 "You mean young Molyneaux?" laughed Dick. 
 "Aunt Seraphina frightened him so desperately 
 that he left the ship at Naples." 
 
 "Frightened him? Why, how was that?" 
 
 "AYell, one day, as usual, he carried her cushions 
 for her. and arranged them tenderly on her deck- 
 chair. 'You must not be so attentive to me. ]\Ir. 
 Molyneaux.' quoth my aunt; 'people might talk, 
 you know I ' Poor, innocent, young Molyneaux, 
 who's exactly twenty-five years younger than she is, 
 and who must have thought of her as a dear mother, 
 blushed to the very roots of his downy hair; and. as 
 I said, he left the ship at Naples, and went the rest of 
 his journey overland." 
 
 "^Vliy are you so certain of Aunt Seraphina 's 
 age?" asked Cecil curiously. "It is a fact that she 
 will not impart to anyone." 
 
 "Thereby hangs a tale," said Dick, mysterious- 
 ly. "When I was a little chap I plagued her to tell 
 me how old she was. 'There's one thing.' said she, 
 crossly, 'you're a very rude little boy to ask a 
 lady's age!' 'How old were you when you came to 
 London, aunt?' 'About eighteen, I think.' 'How
 
 14 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 long have you been here?' 'Oh, twenty-four years.' 
 Then I was busy with a bit of paper and a pencil 
 for a minute. I hadn't wrestled vainly with gritty 
 stairs, and squeaking pencils, and addition sums! 
 'You'll be forty-two on Saturday!' I cried, trium- 
 phantly. And I've kept count of her birthdays, and 
 added on the years, ever since." 
 
 "Do you ever think of our funny fellow- 
 passengers on board the Victoria?" 
 
 "Yes. There was that fat little man," said 
 Dick, "who paraded the ship's deck in a Panama 
 hat and pyjamas, barefoot, of a morning, in the 
 warm part of the trip, leading his small son by the 
 hand. The youngster, also, wore pyjamas, and was 
 barefoot — a small copy of his father, and wear- 
 ing on his head a Panama hat that had seen better 
 days, and which had belonged to his parent until 
 he got himself a new one at Colombo, when he gave 
 the old one to his little son. It was rather like 
 Elijah's mantle descending upon Elisha; only that 
 it Avas far too big for him !" 
 
 "I recollect a man whom I used to overhear 
 in the cabin next to mine," said Middleton, "vainly 
 endeavouring to convince his wife that tobacco- 
 smoking in a small closed-up cabin purified the air 
 by destroying inmiinerable microbes. 'I'd rather
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 15 
 
 have the microbes,' answered she; 'and, anyway, I 
 don't believe it !' " 
 
 "Do you remember the fancy-dress ball," 
 laughed Cecil, "when Aunt Seraphina's elderly ad- 
 mirer, Mr. Sproggins. upset that cup of coffee over 
 the back breadths of her best silk dress?" 
 
 "She stood in front of him," said Dick, "flirt- 
 ing with Dr. Clark, blissfully ignorant of the mis- 
 hap. Mr. Sproggins stood with the empty cup, gaz- 
 ing miserably at Aunt Seraphina's ruined dress. 
 When the inevitable moment of discovery arrived 
 he was quite crushed!" 
 
 "Then there was the man in love with a girl 
 who had jilted him," said Middleton. 
 
 "His dear mother thought a trip round the 
 world might help him to forget his griefs," said 
 Dick, "and she was travelling with him. The fel- 
 low told me all about his love affairs. I said I'd 
 not want a girl v.ho didn't want me. He told me, one 
 evening, he didn't blame the girl, but her purse- 
 proud relations, for the breaking-off of their en- 
 gagement. But. by the morning, he had changed 
 his mind again. 'I think she has treated mo in a 
 most unwomanly way!' he said. I always thought 
 a rejected, love-sick man ought to starve himself at 
 meals," mused Dick, "until I saw he could slill feel
 
 16 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 it very deeply even when he ate his dinner with an 
 appetite. And this fellow's appetite was as good as 
 ever. Well, love is cheap — so cheap that there are 
 several degrees of it." 
 
 "Apropos," said Middleton, "there was the 
 middle-aged married man who was so infatuated 
 with Miss Gore. One day I saw her carrying a 
 deck-chair a few yards, and he rushed up and took 
 it away from her. 'Do you suppose I'd let you 
 carry that heavy chair?' he asked, with tender 
 reproach. 'Of course not!' said she, smartly; 'but 
 yesterday I saw you allow your wife to stagger 
 under hers the whole length of the deck.' " 
 
 "Do you remember that poor woman travelling 
 ill the second-class," said Cecil, "who was reported 
 to be in such awful need of spiritual comfort?" 
 
 "The one who had lost her husband by an acci- 
 dent, and never got over it?" 
 
 "The same," responded Dick. "So Mr. Moly- 
 neaux was asked to go and see her. He asked the 
 messenger how long ago it was. 'Oh, fourteeen years 
 ago,' was the reply. 'And she has mourned him 
 ever since!' said Molyneaux, much impressed. 
 'Constancy, thy name is woman!' A friend of hers 
 bad lost her husband, too, by the same accident, 
 and they were travelling together. Mr. Molyneaux
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 17 
 
 went over to the second-class saloon, where Mrs. 
 Simpson rocked herself and wept, sustained by Mrs. 
 Brown, who was also shedding tears abundantly. 
 'Your dear ones are together, now,' quavered Moh^- 
 neaux, vainly endeavouring to think of consolation. 
 'David has met his Jonathan! Is not that a com- 
 fort to you, Mrs. Simpson?' 'My David niver liked 
 that Jonathan,' objected she, 'when they was both 
 alive; and it can't be any comfert, sir, to him, nor 
 yet to me!' 'But only think how happy he must 
 be. dwelling in that better country, singing as he 
 •plays upon his golden harp!' 'Yes. there's the 
 'arps,' she responded, bitterly, with a fresh flow of 
 tears. ' E aint niver 'ad no ear fer moosick, neither; 
 and 'e allers 'ated singin', did my David, let alone 
 the 'arps. And 'arps is old-fashioned in these days, 
 besides, sir. The 'arps '11 sorter worrit 'im. And as 
 fer Jonathan, 'is voice 'ud frighten cows, let alone 
 'is feller angels ! ' The poor parson looked unhappy 
 and embarrassed now. ' Well, ' he suggested feebly, 
 'at any rate we will all be in one kind of fashion 
 there. And I am certain we will all be happy, each 
 in our own manner of happiness!' 'Then there 
 won't be no 'arps to worry David?' she asked, 
 eagerly. He blinked his eyes uneasily and hesitated. 
 'Well, as to that, I cannot say, for certain.' Here 
 
 B
 
 18 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 his sleeve was plucked indignantly by Mrs. Brown, 
 who was visibly affected. 'Lor', sir, you 'adn't 
 ought ter talk like that ter Hannah ! Though I 
 don't 'old ter like the 'arps mj^self. But it's in the 
 Bible they are there. And it aint sound doctrine 
 ter disparridge of 'em. It aint otherdox, nor yet it 
 aint judeeshous. And Hannah '11 be sorter dis- 
 appinted when she goes to 'er long 'ome if things 
 aint quite as she expected 'em ter be. It aint right 
 of you ter raise false 'opes. The 'arps is there, and 
 we'll all 'ave ter play on 'em, a-sittin' on gold 
 chairs!' " 
 
 "And what said Molyneaux?" 
 
 "Why, he fled to his own cabin in sheer dis- 
 may, quite routed. He felt the situation was too 
 difficult for his small powers to cope with." 
 
 As they talked they finally arrived at the 
 terrace of a beautifully-placed, detached white villa, 
 with luxuriant gardens on all sides, overlooking 
 the rich, turquoise-coloured sea. Here Middleton 
 was welcomed warmly by Mr. Cleveland and his 
 half-sister, Miss Seraphina Smythe. 
 
 "Did you cross over here directly from Mar- 
 seilles?" asked IMiddleton, incidentally, in the 
 course of conversaticn. 
 
 **No; after you left the ship, we did a little
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 19 
 
 travelling together on the other side of the Mediter- 
 ranean, and then went to Gibraltar." 
 
 "I was charmed with the flower markets there, 
 and with the pretty girls who sold the flowers, ' ' said 
 Cecil. 
 
 "Afterwards, we crossed the straits to Tangier, 
 where we arrived at five o'clock on a sunny after- 
 noon." 
 
 "The instant yon reach the quay at Tangier, 
 you are annoyed by crowds of bare-legged 
 Arabs," commented Miss Seraphina, with severity. 
 
 "I've never seen one bare-headed, though," 
 said Dick. 
 
 "The tarboosh," said Mr. Cleveland, pompous- 
 ly, "seems to be an indispensable portion of attire 
 amongst the Faithful. The dusky followers of Ma- 
 homet near Tangier wear the brown jelabi, and 
 mostly the small, coloured skull-cap." 
 
 "I have never seen them Avithout their red 
 cap. indoors or out," said Middleton. I believe 
 they sleep in it." 
 
 "I expect it's the long, blue tassel on the cap 
 that's so attractive to them," suggested Dick. 
 
 "But I've often seen them with a red gun- 
 case instead, wound round their heads." said 
 Middleton.
 
 20 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "In Tangier," said Dick, "when I met a Moor 
 and said ' Salaama ! ' the Moor always replied 
 'Salaama!' Why would he not say 'Salaama, Ali- 
 knm,' to me?" 
 
 "The Arabs carefully dispense with the use of 
 the word 'Alikum,' " said Mr. Cleveland, "because 
 ir is a word they never use to unbelievers of their 
 faith." 
 
 "AVhat I most dislike amongst the Orientals," 
 said Miss Seraphina, "is their greed for money, and 
 their impertinence in meddling with my precious 
 parcels when I lay them down. " 
 
 "Oh, that is a customary Eastern trait," 
 said Mr. Cleveland. "You will find it everywhere 
 amongst the Arab race." 
 
 "It's merely their way of founding a claim on 
 travellers," laughed Middleton. 
 
 "If I stop for a single moment in a crowd," 
 complained Miss Seraphina, "a beggar instantly 
 pounces on me, crying, 'Backsheesh, ya Sittah!' in 
 their usual heathenish way." 
 
 "Sometimes we could barely make our start, 
 indeed," said Mr. Cleveland, "on account of their 
 importunate demands." 
 
 "We've often been besieged by the whole 
 troop of them at once," said Dick.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 21 
 
 "Mr. Middleton, had you a pleasant trip 
 across?" asked Cecil. 
 
 "Well, the day was bright enough when we left 
 Marseilles, but we had a stormy night, and, there- 
 fore, made but little way. We had a run of thirty- 
 four hours. ' ' 
 
 "I suppose you took a through ticket from 
 London to Marseilles?" 
 
 "Yes. I telegraphed from London the instant 
 I decided on my expedition, and secured a berth 
 beforehand in the Algerine steamer, the 'Sudan.' 
 I h^d heard from your uncle in the interval, a fore- 
 cast of your movements, and expected that I would 
 find you somewhere in Algiers." 
 
 "Will you go with me to-morrow morning to 
 select the animals for our contemplated journey?" 
 asked Mr. Cleveland, as their visitor rose to take 
 his leave. 
 
 "I vv^ll meet you early," answered i^Iiddleton. 
 "I'm going now to see about mj^ own effects, and 
 to make my private preparations. Meantime, 'Au 
 revoir.' "
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The following morning they started prepara- 
 tion for their journey. The day was spent in over- 
 hauling their baggage, and getting their caravan 
 together. 
 
 "We shall want a dragoman, and tents, and 
 twelve or fourteen mules to carry baggage. And 
 must have either riding mules or horses," said Mr. 
 Cleveland. 
 
 He knitted his brows in perplexity. 
 
 "Camels Avould be more serviceable for a long 
 desert journey," suggested Middleton. 
 
 "True," assented Mr. Cleveland. "And we 
 would require but few of them. But we must have 
 a dragoman to command our party. "With a reliable 
 guide and suitable escort, we run small risk in 
 taking such an expedition." 
 
 Later in the morning they went out to see some 
 camels which had been brought out from the Sok 
 for their inspection.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 23 
 
 "Here, at last, is my chance for studying the 
 habits of the camel, ' ' said Dick. ' ' It looks difficult 
 enough to mount — but how to get off again is an 
 even greater puzzle ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh. that is a matter of small difficulty," 
 laughed Middleton, "as you may soon discover." 
 
 "That sounds like a challenge!" said Dick; 
 "and I'm sure camel riding is not half so hard as 
 you think. At any rate, I'm going to try." 
 
 As soon as the Ai*abs understood his wish, a 
 camel was led up for him to mount. It knelt down, 
 and he climbed into the saddle. An Arab then 
 uttered an uncouth guttural sound, at which the 
 camel lurched clumsily up again, with the result 
 that Dick instantly flew out of the saddle, landing 
 several feet away on the sand. 
 
 "Well!" he said ruefully, feeling himself all 
 over to see if any bones were broken; "I know now 
 what it is for pride to have a fall ! I never quite 
 believed that tale about the falling of the apple on 
 Newton's head," he added thoughtfully. "The 
 .discoverer of the law of gravitation must have been 
 himself the falling apple — perhaps from camel 
 back." 
 
 "You are not really hurt, my boy?" asked Mr. 
 Cleveland, anxiously, as his son made no attempt 
 to rise.
 
 24 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Do you see that awfully human look of unkind- 
 ness in the camel's face?" said Dick, staring gloom- 
 ily up at the animal. "Upon my word, he looks 
 so contemptuous that I feel quite ashamed!" 
 
 "Well," said Middleton, "I warned you that 
 the easiest part of the business was to get down." 
 
 "One might become quite used to it in time,'* 
 said Mr. Cleveland, with philosophy. 
 
 "Perhaps one might — in time," said Dick, with 
 feeling; "but I'd rather know the limits first! You'd 
 need as many lives as a cat to do it," he added, as 
 , an afterthought. 
 
 "We must have dromedaries for the ladies," 
 suggested Middleton. 
 
 ' ' If their pace is easy, I should like one for 
 myself, in prefei*ence to a horse," said Mr. Cleve- 
 land. 
 
 "The pace of the well-bred dromedary is de- 
 lightfully easy, and very swift." 
 
 "I am negotiating for a dragoman to act as our 
 guide," said Mr. Cleveland. "And we must lay in 
 some suitable provisions for our journey." 
 
 "Buy plently of dried figs, dates, and bread,'* 
 said Middleton. "The Arabs call it 'doora,' and it 
 is good, though rather coarse." 
 
 "Look!" said Dick, as they were taking their 
 way homewards. "Here's Aunt Seraphina coming
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 25 
 
 out to meet ns. I always know when my Aunt 
 Seraphina's coming. I can see her a long way off 
 — a dark blot of umbrella held up above her head 
 where it is shady — bright sunshine everywhere but 
 where Aunt Seraphina walks! Upon my word, it 
 must be a reflection of her own temperament!" 
 
 He paused to gaze reflectively into the distance 
 at the approaching figure. 
 
 "I broke her oldest umbrella once, when I was 
 a little chap," he added, reminiscently, "because I 
 heard her say she didn't know what to do with it, 
 it was of no earthly use to her. But she'd a turn 
 for economy — which came out in umbrellas; and 
 she was trying to wear it out, because she didn't 
 like to waste it. So I thought she'd be grateful to 
 me, and, perhaps, she'd double the half-crown she'd 
 promised me for a Christmas-box. When Aunt 
 Seraphina found it broken, she suddenly discovered 
 that she valued it. So she spent my half-croAvn on 
 a new umbrella-stick. But a man tripped over it 
 in the train, and split it ; so I got even with the old 
 girl on that score!" 
 
 "Oh, 'the giftie gie us, to see ourselves as ithers 
 see us!' " laughed Middleton. "I fancy we all have 
 our pet economy — in string, or pins, or paper, or 
 what not." 
 
 Later in the day they were told that their Arab
 
 26 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 dragoman. Ibrahim, had arrived. They found his 
 men and camels in a bodj^, lying under the palm 
 trees at the distance of a mile or two outside the 
 city, all ready for the journey. 
 
 After a few words with Middleton, who could 
 speak Arabic fairly well, the dragoman gave his 
 men an order, and a busy scene ensued. 
 
 "My men are trying the paces of the drome- 
 daries for thy women," said Ibrahim to Mr. Cleve- 
 land, in his broken English. 
 
 Their paces were tried, and they chose several 
 smooth-paced ones. 
 
 The first loading of the camels was a tremendous 
 business. From an early hour the sound of nimble 
 Arab tongues had mingled with the discontented 
 cries of snarling camels. The o^'v^Qers of the camels 
 were quarrelling over the apportioned burdens, and 
 the camels, seemingly aware of this, endeavoured 
 to aid their cause by protesting bitterly against 
 any freight at all. It was the usual bickering that 
 took place before a desert caravan departed on a 
 journey. 
 
 They reached their first encampment that even- 
 ing as it was growing dark, and Dick declared with 
 glee he felt that they were actually in the desert. 
 On the following morning they were all astir at sun- 
 rise, happy and excited, beginning their desert life.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 27 
 
 Separate loads were arranged for the baggage 
 camels, and saddles were built for the women. Then 
 they all mounted their dromedaries and set forward 
 on their journey. 
 
 Their companj^ consisted of five of their own 
 party; the dragoman, Ibrahim; his trusty Arabs, 
 baggage camels, five dromedaries, and a horse. In 
 front rode Ibrahim, and then the women; behind, 
 ]\Ir. Cleveland rode with his son and ]\Iiddleton : and 
 at the back were the Arabs and baggage camels. 
 Cecil and Miss Seraphina rode in comfortable 
 saddles, and were Avell protected from the sun. An 
 Arab on foot led each dromedary; the baggage 
 camels being guided only by a strange cry that 
 seemed to be well understood by them. 
 
 "We've turned our faces away from civilisa- 
 tion and dull boredom, Cecil — we've set out at last 
 for the wild and free old wilderness!" exclaimed 
 her cousin, with unsuppressed delight ; and watching 
 a long train of camels pass them on their way 
 into the city, bringing loads of dates. 
 
 "As we came to the edge of the desert, where 
 the country is quite open, did you notice a difference 
 in the air?" asked Middleton, riding to Cecil's side. 
 
 "Yes; I noticed a great difference," said Cecil. 
 "The air is light and pure." 
 
 "I enjoy this way of travelling," said Miss
 
 26 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Seraphina, with satisfaction. "Mr. Middleton, you 
 are aware that I am taking this journey for ray 
 health?" 
 
 "Which has always been unfailingly good," 
 commented Dick, sotto voce. 
 
 "I was always in the hands of doctors," said 
 Miss Seraphina. "I was afraid to show them my 
 tongue, lest an operation might be thought necessary. 
 One hears of nothing but these necessary operations 
 nowadays ! ' ' 
 
 "I find the motion of my dromedary easy, and 
 very pleasant," said Mr. Cleveland, riding up to 
 them. 
 
 "You'll be able to read, and write, or sleep, 
 riding, father," Dick exclaimed; "or sort your 
 specimens. And Aunt Seraphina can write up her 
 diary the moment anything happens I" 
 
 "I do not suppose that we will wish to sleep 
 upon our travels," ]\Ir. Cleveland answered, smiling 
 at his animated face. 
 
 "Not at this early stage of novelty," laughed 
 Middleton. '^But later on, perhaps." 
 
 "There lies the way to the Great Desert! Let 
 us look with awe upon its unknown face!" said 
 Cecil. 
 
 Before them Avas a rolling, undulating plain of 
 stones and sand. As far as eye could reach appeared
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 29 
 
 hillock after hillock of yellow earth, varied here 
 and there by an oasis of palms, a well, or, perhaps, 
 a little village. At other times, just a great dun- 
 coloured expanse, stretching out towards the grey 
 and brown and purple hills beyond, in distance, far 
 away from view. 
 
 Depressions, and hills of sand and rock ; in some 
 places long, rolling undulations, appearing like a 
 succession of long waves of sand, with deep, wide 
 troughs and abrupt crests. 
 
 Rocky gorges, level plains of sand, tracts 
 strewn v/ith large stones, so thickly scattered that 
 there appeared scarcely room to place the foot. In 
 other parts the sandy plains were covered with 
 small stones. 
 
 Just before they reached the camp they passed 
 a caravan returning to the city, and the respective 
 leaders of the caravans politely asked each others' 
 business. 
 
 ■ ' ' The passing caravans alwa3's seem to speak 
 each other, like ships," said Dick. 
 
 "I always make a point, myself, of asking 
 people personal questions, as a matter of principle," 
 remarked Miss Seraphina. "Some of the folk 'board 
 ship objected to it. People who dislike my personal 
 inquiries about their private business always seem to 
 me to have something wrong about them. They
 
 30 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 might be in trade, might be shady individuals, be 
 anything, or anybody. For my own part, I won't 
 know people unless I knoAv who they are, and what 
 they do, and all about them." 
 
 "And what about yourself?" suggested Dick. 
 
 "Oh, that's a different matter, of course. I 
 expect to be taken on pure trust. To be doubted 
 would be insulting to me ! " 
 
 Thej^ found all in readiness for them at the 
 encampment when they reached it. 
 
 "We have been fortunate in our first day," 
 said Cecil. "It has been a fine, clear, sunny day; 
 and the fresh wind blowing behind us has kept the 
 air cool." 
 
 "And one does not feel much fatigued," said 
 Mr. Cleveland; "the movement of the dromedary is 
 so smooth and easy." 
 
 "How interesting our camp looks." Dick ex- 
 claimed as they approached. "Our tents are all 
 alight with Eastern lamps." 
 
 "The camels lie picturesquely grouped about 
 the tents," said Cecil, looking round; "the night 
 fires of the Arabs are already burning. This even- 
 ing scene would make a charming subject for an 
 artist." 
 
 "I know an artist who has painted pictures of 
 these scenes," said Dick. "His name is Henry
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 31 
 
 West. I've seen his sketche£ He'd make a splen- 
 did auctioneer!" 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because he paints bad pictures!" 
 
 "Is your reasoning quite logical?" asked Mid- 
 dleton. "Why should a bad artist make a splendid 
 auctioneer?" 
 
 "Because he cries his own bad pictures up so 
 well!" 
 
 "Well, if he be successful," said Middleton, 
 " as I expect he will, there will soon be a change of 
 opinion on your part; and other people will show 
 a change of front. I know the man." 
 
 "Everyone to his own taste," said Dick. 
 "Apropos, I once overheard between three men a 
 discussion that impressed me very much. 
 'Oh, I wouldn't give thirty pounds for a mere pic- 
 ture,' said a jeweller; 'now, see this fine diamond; 
 and it's only sixty guineas!' 'Xo wonder you 
 jewellers grow rich,' cried the picture-dealer, en- 
 viously. 'I wouldn't give sixty guineas for a dia- 
 mond ring. Look at this picture, now — a gem of 
 art — a thing of beauty is a joy for ever! And I 
 offer it to you for the small sum of thirty pounds!' 
 'Pish!' exclaimed the matter-of-fact merchant; 
 'don't show me your trashy gems; one might as well 
 buy bits of glass— all rubbish, I assure you. As
 
 32 • MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 for the picture, well, I might make shift to hang 
 that on my walls. I'll give five pounds for that, 
 and not a penny more!' " 
 
 "I am glad to see the cooks are busy at their 
 little kitchens." said Miss Seraphina, sauntering 
 up. 
 
 "They can cook very well, although their kit- 
 chens are so primitive," said Mr. Cleveland, "just 
 those small iron stands, containing fiery charcoal, on 
 the sand in front of their tents. The result, in the 
 fo-rm of dinner, is a creditable enough performance 
 for the desert! Last night's dinner was really very 
 good. The coffee, or course, is always excellent." 
 
 "Still, of course, I don't like folk to care too 
 much about their dinner," remarked Miss Sera^ 
 phina, admouishingly. "Some people whom I ob- 
 served upon the ship ate a great deal at meals. I 
 will not name them. One morning, at breakfast, 
 he ate five plates, and fruit as well. He had a 
 mother." said Miss Seraphina, with asperity, "who 
 was almost as capable. 'Capable' is the safest 
 word to use — capable!" 
 
 "Aunt Seraphina 's alluding to young Mr. 
 Smith," said Dick. "Five plates! He must 
 have been an ostrich ! Surely plates are rather 
 indigestible ! That reminds me of my tutor. 
 The woman at his lodgings used to make
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 33 
 
 his toast so hard, because, in an unlucky moment, 
 he had told her that he liked it crisp. One morning, 
 at breakfast, it was as hard as bricks. He broke 
 his teeth on it. He told her, sarcastically, that she 
 was the very queen for making toast ! Unluckily, 
 the sarcasm was quite thrown away on her, she ac- 
 tually took it as a compliment ! And ever since, the 
 woman has excelled herself in making his toast 
 hard!" 
 
 "Look here," said Middleton; "you ladies are to 
 occupy this little tent apart. It is nearly read}' for 
 you now. You will find your luggage all unloaded 
 and arranged in it." 
 
 "We must establish our order of travel," Mr. 
 Cleveland said that evening after dinner. "It is a 
 custom of the Bedouins to start on an expedition 
 not in the morning, but afternoon. But I propose to 
 start every morning at eight o'clock; have two or 
 three hours' riding before the mid-day rest; then, 
 after lunch, ride to our tents, which we should 
 reach at sunset." 
 
 "The cool of the morning is unquestionably 
 the best time for travel here," said Middleton. 
 
 "The loaded camels and the cooks can be sent 
 forward as usual," said Mr. Cleveland, "whilst we 
 halt for rest and luncheon. They can rest upon the 
 
 way. By the time that we come up with them, the 
 
 c
 
 34 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 tents will always be pitched, and the baggage ar- 
 ranged in them ; and our dinner will be nearly ready. 
 This will allow us ample leisure for rest and a change 
 before "\ve dine." 
 
 This plan, once arranged, they agreed to ad- 
 here to it, with but the intermissions of the Sunday's 
 rest. 
 
 As Cecil and Miss Seraphina stood together, 
 just outside their tent, they heard the low hum of 
 Arab talk, the mutter of the camel-drivers to their 
 camels, and the dull champing of the tethered 
 camels. 
 
 "It is a warm, still night. "What a congenial 
 home the encampment makes ! ' ' said Miss Seraphina, 
 blithely; "life, and cheerful sounds of movement are 
 on every side." 
 
 "The desert seems so dream-like in the moon- 
 light," murmured Cecil, as she gazed around, 
 pausing ere she turned to follow her aunt within 
 the tent. 
 
 "Well, do come to bed now, Cecil. I am tired 
 out!" 
 
 And Miss Seraphina turned into the tent and 
 threw herself upon her camp-bed, where she lay 
 yawning with fatigue. 
 
 The faint tinkling of distant bells was sound- 
 ing in Cecil's ears, and she stood still to listen. A
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 35 
 
 caravan was passing by in the far distance. The 
 sound of the bells on the baggage camels could be 
 heard faintly, a long way off. She stood listening 
 until they gradually died away again. 
 
 At last she went inside the tent. The drowsy 
 Arab cries soon ceased, the lights went out, and the 
 wonderful, weird silence of the desert night en- 
 wrapped them round. And all was quiet and peace- 
 ful round the whole of the encampment.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "We are getting used to our new life," said 
 Cecil, with delight, to Middleton, as they rode side by 
 side. "I enjoy this rising with the sun, the strange 
 cries of the camels, the bustle of packing. They 
 are delightful to me." 
 
 ''Breakfast finished," added Middleton, "tents 
 struck, and all our party mounted, our encampment 
 of the evening before is given back to the waste." 
 "We seem fortunate in our Arabs," Cecil said. 
 "We are. Mustafa is an excellent all-round 
 man. He is rather indolent; but he is thoroughly 
 good-natured. ' ' 
 
 "I like Selim best," said Dick. "He's always 
 bright and cheerj^" 
 
 "I heard a quarrel this morning, between 
 two Arabs who were loading camels. The men 
 seemed positively dangerous. One of them was your 
 good-natured Mustafa. What was the fuss about?" 
 asked Cecil, curiously. 
 
 "Oh, each of them wished to put as little lug- 
 gage on his own camel's back as he could," said
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 37 
 
 Middleton, langliiug. "They quarrelled over some 
 addition to their appointed loads. Their camels 
 joined them in noisy abuse, and in angry objections 
 to some small article of baggage." 
 
 "And they said unkind things about each other's 
 departed grandfather," said Dick, "as is the way 
 with angry Arabs. They call it 'giving him much 
 hard words.' Mustafa also said to All's camel : 'May 
 thy harem be childless!' and said things uncompli- 
 mentary about his destiny. Then Ibrahim came up 
 and told them it was not curses, but hard work, that 
 was required." 
 
 As he spoke, there was a slight commotion 
 amongst the baggage camels, and some compact 
 article was mysteriously hurtled through the air, 
 falling with a spongy thud upon the sand by Miss 
 Seraphina's dromedary. It had been violently 
 hurled there by an Arab's angry hand. 
 
 ' ' Y 'Allah ! ' ' cried Mustafa. ' ' Oulah !— oa— oa ! ' ' 
 ("Take care— take care!") 
 
 "O'ah! Garda!" added Ali. "Take care— out 
 of the way. Camel coming!" 
 
 Next moment the camel had trodden heavily 
 upon the article, and Miss Seraphina gave a sudden 
 shriek of mingled anger, anguish, and dismay. 
 
 "Wliat is that? Why, I declare, it is my own 
 best cushion!" she exclaimed, with sudden shock
 
 38 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and much emotion. "The camel has trodden on it 
 — and it is spoilt — quite spoilt!" 
 
 As she looked down upon the much-befrilled, 
 silken ruins, she was visibly affected, and cast 
 scathing glances of reproach upon Mustafa, whom 
 she scolded in English, which he did not under- 
 stand. Ali. who could speak a little English, with 
 appropriate gestures, answered volubly. 
 
 "It not my load — Mustafa put it on when I not 
 looking," said the Arab, angrily. "May his great 
 grandfather's grave be defiled! Malesch! May 
 Allah destroy his father and his grandfather in the 
 flames of the infernal regions!" 
 
 ' ' Oulah ! " ("By Allah ! ") said Mustafa, calm- 
 ly- 
 
 "May Allah burn thy great grandfather and thy 
 
 great grandmother," said the good-natured Ali 
 fervently, in reply. "May Allah destroy thy 
 house!" 
 
 In dignified silence, Mustafa stalked away. He 
 deigned not to reply. 
 
 "This meaningless curse is a favourite one with 
 them, apparently," said Middleton to Cecil. 
 
 "There's plenty of repetition of it," Dick 
 observed, "not much fear of their forgetting it." 
 
 "I must say I feel quite ferocious about my 
 cushion," complained Miss Seraphina.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 39 
 
 ''Well, get a pillow, and thump it till you feel 
 calmer," suggested her unsympathetic nephew. 
 " 'He who gives way to anger punishes himself for 
 the fault of another.' Pray, keep at least the 
 semblance of your temper. 'Assume a virtue if you 
 have it not. Refrain to-day, and this shall lend a 
 kind of easiness to the next abstinence; the next 
 more easy.' " 
 
 "You should show me more respect !" exclaimed 
 his aunt. ' ' Try to behave like a gentleman, if j'ou 
 do not feel like one." 
 
 "All! I'm afraid I'm wanting in the bump of 
 veneration," replied her nephew, sadly. 
 
 "I'm sure Mustafa's sorry for the mishap," sug- 
 gested Middleton. 
 
 " 'Though thou repent, yet have I still the 
 loss,' " Dick quoted, sotto voce. 
 
 "Mustafa's sorrow will not mend my cushion," 
 said Miss Seraphina, sadly. 
 
 " 'The offender's sorrow yields but scant re- 
 lief,' " commented Dick. "Mustafa's sorrow will 
 not mend Aunt Seraphina 's cushion." 
 
 But neither of the two Arabs cared a jot about 
 Miss Seraphina 's woe; though, later on, they made 
 their personal quarrel up. 
 
 "It's the don't-care people who ride roughshod 
 over everyone," said Dick reflectively.
 
 40 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "And it's clearly a case of fusion," added 
 Middleton. "Ali understands the art of carry- 
 ing the vfar into the enemy's camp. He goes 
 over to the opposition — and then conquers them. 
 He's an adept at it. I even heard him giving Mus- 
 tafa ' delicious words, ' as he calls an unlimited supply 
 of flattery." 
 
 The caravan was straggling along at the usual 
 slow swing of the baggage camels. The sun would 
 not be high enough for some time yet to cause the 
 tropical shimmer, for it was still early in the morn- 
 ing; and the wide, brown landscape, with its distant 
 violet edging, stood out distinctly in that dry, clear 
 air. 
 
 "Let us get down and walk awhile," said Mid- 
 dleton to Cecil. "There is no heat yet, and very 
 little glare, and we can easily walk the pace of the 
 camels." 
 
 "The air is pure and soft," said Cecil, when 
 they had alighted; "and this wild scenery is delight- 
 ful. I like this dry, light air. I like this novelty of 
 life. It has the charm of variety." 
 
 "There's positively nothing here to show us 
 we're not on the same track we passed along at 
 the same time the day before," said Dick. 
 
 "No. The landmarks seldom vary. Look; here 
 are apparently the same small, aromatic shrubs
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 41 
 
 upon the self -same spot that we passed yesterday."" 
 They were now losing the long levels of pebbly 
 
 desert, and coming once again upon the sunburnt 
 
 rocks and rich orange-coloured sand. 
 
 "Does the desert always look the same, all 
 
 through the year?" asked Dick. 
 
 "Mustafa says the deserts are quite different in 
 
 aspect at different seasons of the year," said Mid- 
 
 dleton. 
 
 "Immense plains," said Mr. Cleveland, "at on& 
 time sterile wastes, in the spring and after rains are 
 quite reclaimed, and in certain parts are plentifully 
 supplied with luxuriant pastorage and these aromatic 
 shrubs, and even flowers." 
 
 They could see some scattered huts in the dis- 
 tance now, and light wreaths of smoke gently rising^ 
 from them — probably from the fires of wandering 
 nomads. At a greater distance, here and there, 
 some tiny oases could be seen, denoting the presence 
 of water-springs. 
 
 "Well, there may be some monotony in a pro- 
 longed, desert life," said Mr. Cleveland, "but there 
 is also bound to be, in travelling here, much in- 
 terest. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed, there is," said Cecil, heartily. 
 
 "In certain parts of the desert," added Middle-
 
 42 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ton, "and in certain seasons, I am told, it is quite 
 enjoyable." 
 
 "I find the atmosphere peculiarly fresh and 
 pure," said Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "And the nights are calm and cool," said Cecil, 
 ^'even in this hot weather, and after a long day 
 beneath the fiercest sun." 
 
 ' ' Of course, as there 's so much sun, the desert 's 
 bound to be always warm," said Dick. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Mr. Cleveland, "I am 
 assured by travellers that in winter the northern 
 parts of the desert are deserted. The rains are often 
 heavy, and in fine weather strong winds sweep over 
 these vast plains with piercing cold. They say that 
 there are even frosts by night." 
 
 "You astonish me!" said Dick. 
 
 "How about the height of summer?" Cecil 
 asked. 
 
 "The heat in summer is excessive. The sun 
 pours down with unmitigated fierceness on the dry, 
 parched plains." 
 
 "I thought," said Middleton, "the heat was 
 always tempered by a cooling breeze?" 
 
 "By high wind, perhaps; but then this raises 
 storms and clouds of sand, borne along at great 
 velocity in columns like waterspouts." 
 
 "It must be curious," said Dick, "to watch the
 
 AlIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 43 
 
 little whirlwinds lift the sand, and send it twisting 
 and twirling over the plain like a great colnmn. I 
 saw a picture once." 
 
 "Well, Dick, perhaps you may have occasion 
 to discover for yourself they justify their prover- 
 bial name of 'devils.' I believe it is no slight matter 
 to have one break over you." 
 
 "All the same, I'd like to see a sand-storm." 
 
 "When we were at Tangier," said Mr. Cleve- 
 land, "a traveller, just arrived from Morocco, told 
 me of a sand-storm he saw there. He said: 'First I 
 noticed a strange haze. It soon began to blow, and 
 the fine sand came in heavy clouds. Everything was 
 quickly hidden by the dust. For several hours it 
 blew, and the whole city was apparently deserted.' " 
 
 They re-mounted their dromedaries soon, and 
 travelled on until the midday halt, when they 
 stopped for rest and luncheon. The camels swung 
 superciliously up, knelt down in a line at command, 
 the riders dismounted from their dromedaries, and 
 the attendant Arabs laid chopped 'tibbin' upon 
 cloths in front of them. 
 
 "Do you notice the difference," said Middleton 
 to Cecil, "between our dromedaries and the baggage 
 camels. The well-bred dromedary will not eat his 
 'tibbin' from^ the ground!" 
 
 "How gracefully they move their well-poised
 
 44 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 heads," said Cecil. "I have grown fond of my own 
 dromedaiy, with its beautiful and gentle eyes." 
 
 After limeh and a long rest, they rode on again. 
 When they dismounted at encampment in the even- 
 ing, rather weary. Miss Seraphina went straight to 
 her own tent. Cecil lingered behind wnth Middle- 
 ton, to Avatch the setting of the sun. 
 
 As the sun set, the cry '*To prayer, to prayer!" 
 rose up. The cry rang out into the still evening air. 
 
 ''God is the only God — Mahomet is His Pro- 
 phet! Come to prayer!" 
 
 And all the Arabs threw themselves with one 
 accord upon the ground, and placed their foreheads 
 on the sand. All around them the men of the de- 
 sert prayed. The sight of the praying Arabs im- 
 pressed Cecil greatly. She and Middleton glanced 
 gravely at each other, and then turned silently 
 away, their faces filled with unexpressed, deep 
 thought. 
 
 ''As evening comes on these desert scenes 
 arouse strange memories in me," said Middleton, 
 presently. "The encampment, with its groups of 
 kneeling camels; the Arabs praying apart, their 
 faces turned to Mecca; and that golden glory in 
 the West, as day is ending." 
 
 "Here night seems to follow day with startling 
 suddenness," responded Cecil,
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 45 
 
 A caravan was moving slowly along the desert 
 track towards the South. The desert lay beyond 
 and all around it. Rose-coloured hills stretched 
 away towards the South. The far distance was be- 
 coming dim, mysterious, and blue, like distant sea. 
 There were still some last, pale glimmerings of day. 
 The cool night wind that blows in the desert waste 
 when the sun has set began to whisper faintly, and 
 to lightly fan their cheeks. The palms appeared 
 far off, where a small oasis showed as a dark patch. 
 
 "One of the greatest mysteries of this mys- 
 terious desert is the false dawn that comes before 
 nightfall," said Middleton. "Most people think, 
 mistakenly, it comes before daylight, and just before 
 the real dawn comes." 
 
 "The great Omar termed it beautifully as 
 ^Dawn's left hand in the sky!' " 
 
 "Think!" said Middleton, in a low, awed voice, 
 "we are passing slowly through the ancient wilder- 
 ness. We may see strange things here together." 
 
 "There were two features in Algiers," said 
 Cecil, "that struck me most, as marking the Oriental 
 character of the place. They seem to follow us 
 here." 
 
 "You mean the Muezzin's cry from the domes 
 and minarets of the Mosques. And the palm 
 trees."
 
 46 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 » 
 
 ''Yes. I'm interested in the Moslem faith," 
 
 said Cecil, dreamily. "In Algiers the IMiiezzin's 
 call to prayer affected me each time I heard the 
 call. I never got used to it. It never palled on 
 me. Slowly the sun set amidst a solemn hush of 
 awe, then arose that sonorous voice: 'Allah! 
 Allah Akbar ! ' And. looking up to the high minaret 
 of the old mosque. I saw the Muezzin who proclaimed 
 the hour of prayer." 
 
 "The prolonged chant," responded Middleton, 
 "seemed mysteriously solemn as the note of sum- 
 mons echoed musically into space." 
 
 "I am told that the Muezzins are all chose.'i 
 for the beauty of their voices," Cecil said. 
 
 She was turning away towards her tent, when 
 Middleton put out his hand to stop her. 
 
 "Please wait a moment, Cecil; I wish to re- 
 mind you of that time when we were alone together 
 on the ship's deck. You recollect, as we sat there 
 together in the dusk, I attempted to tell you 
 of my feeling for you. You would not understand 
 — perhaps you thought I had known you but a little 
 while, and that I spoke too soon. Aboard ship, al- 
 most as in this desolate wilderness, friendships are 
 quickly formed — and love counts not by time ! But 
 you would not listen to me, and I was obliged to 
 leave you hurriedlv when I received that urgent
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 47 
 
 message summoning me home. But I always hoped 
 that we would meet again. Cecil, do you think 
 that you have the heart to hear me now?" 
 
 A faint flush rose to Cecil's delicately-tinted 
 cheeks — a flush that IMiddleton could just discern 
 in the dim light. There was a brief silence, and his 
 heart was beating fast, in his suspense. 
 
 '"I don't think," she said, reflectively, at last, 
 ''I have it in me to love any man. I feel so calm 
 and self-contained — and so unmoved." 
 
 "But I have no rival here!" he answered eag- 
 erly. ' ' The chances here are mine, and mine alone. 
 I may yet win your heart. At any time a sign from 
 you will recall me gladly to your side." 
 
 "How could I ever tell you?" she asked, won- 
 deringly, "if I should change my mind?" 
 
 He smiled. "You don't understand what love 
 is, yet," he answered, earnestly, "If once you 
 loved, you would know that it might not be diflS- 
 cult to speak." 
 
 "I could never do it!" answered Cecil, with 
 conviction. 
 
 "Otherwise, how could I come to you/' he sug- 
 gested, pleadingly, "if I were away?" 
 
 "But I might feel afraid that you had 
 changed," Cecil responded doubtfully, 
 
 "I shall never change!" he answered, passion-
 
 48 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ately. turning to her, as though he would have 
 clasped her to his heart. 
 
 He checked himself suddenly. 
 
 "Cecil, 3'ou will gi\:e me the final word, when 
 we will one day speak of this again together. All 
 roads lead to Rome ! And there are many here. 
 Meantime, do not fear that I will worry you." 
 
 "I'm not afraid," said Cecil, gravely, as she 
 turned to go; "for at least we are good friends." 
 
 "Thank you for saying that!" 
 
 Middleton gravely stood aside, that she might 
 pass to her own tent, and when thej^ met again at 
 dinner it was apparently as though this talk had 
 never been.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Late one afternoon they drove into a sand- 
 storm. A faint murmuring of distant wind was 
 trembling over the wide emptiness. The iew 
 isolated palms looked almost ghost-like in the pale 
 and feeble light that quivered in a cloud of whirl- 
 ing sand. Then a great wind arose, carrying with 
 it innumerable particles of sand, which whirled 
 about the camels, completely blotting out the desert 
 round them. 
 
 "Marshallah! There is a bad sand-storm coming 
 up," said Ibrahim, in Arabic, preparing to dismount 
 and place the caravan, his aba ready in his hand to 
 wrap about his head. 
 
 As he spoke, the wind began to roar, and over 
 the desert a thick darkness fell abruptly. It was 
 the clouds of sand from the surrounding dunes, 
 which now came stingingly upon their faces. 
 
 The Arabs had already placed the party, and 
 each Arab pulled the hood of his burnous over his 
 turban and across his face, covering his mouth with 
 a fold of his haik.
 
 50 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 When the storm was over, Ibrahim, who had 
 been smothered in his burnouse, pulled the hood 
 from his eyes, and looked about him. Then he 
 roused the party, telling them gravely they had 
 better pitch the tents and camp there for the night. 
 The Arabs were already throwing back their hoods 
 and uncovering their mouths. 
 
 ''Mustafa says we may come across some drift 
 sand shortly, after last night's storm." said Mid- 
 dleton to Cecil, as they rode on their way next 
 morning. 
 
 By-and-bye they came in sight of a long, thin 
 track of sand, a few hundred yards across, and in 
 the highest places seven or eight feet high. It 
 stretched away as far as they could see. 
 
 Ibrahim was consulting anxiously with the other 
 Arabs, and Middleton joined the group. 
 
 "Merciful Allah! It is not safe to cross the 
 drift," said Ibrahim. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Middleton. "It is only 
 formed of very light and dusty sand. The faintest 
 breeze would send it floating up again upon the 
 
 air." 
 
 "Not an Arab here would venture it. Their 
 fear of drift sand is too great." 
 
 "Why do you refuse to cross this drift? It 
 does not appear dangerous."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 51 
 
 Ibrahim made some of his men a sign. The 
 Arabs guided their camels to the drift; but when 
 thej^ reached the edge they stopped short, sudden- 
 ly, displaying great terror, and obstinately refused 
 to venture any further. 
 
 "Cease, 0, my brothers! Our camels would 
 break their legs if they tried to cross," said Ibra- 
 him, "and so perish miserably. Behold! they know 
 this, and they snort with fear. And we ourselves 
 would be sucked into it, and die a v/retched death 
 of suffocation." 
 
 "Is it likely to remain long settled in one 
 place?" asked Middleton. 
 
 "Last night's wind has brought it here — if 
 wind comes again, perhaps to-day, or to-morrow, 
 it will have disappeared." 
 
 The party rode a long way round to avoid the 
 crossing, and, when they had camped at last, they 
 were thoroughly tired out. 
 
 One day, on remounting their dromedaries 
 after a long rest, the fresh wind fell suddenly, and 
 the air became intensely hot. For some time they 
 rode in silence, for the heat created an unusual 
 drowsiness. 
 
 "We are having our first real taste of desert 
 heat," said Middleton, guiding his dromedary to 
 Cecil's side.
 
 52 MIRxVGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "The monotonous rocking motions of my dro- 
 medary increase my weariness and sense of torpor," 
 said Mr. Cleveland, languidly. 
 
 "Let us stop for a long rest," suggested Dick. 
 
 "I've been told that was tried once for a flag- 
 ging Literary Club," said Middleton. "It's a cer- 
 tain cure for apathetic members — to suspend cluD 
 meetings for a year. This, after an irreproachable 
 record of twenty years ! But it secured a new and 
 indefinite revival for the club." 
 
 "The animals hold on steadily, in spite of the 
 great heat," said Mr. Cleveland; "and the Arabs 
 leading them walk on at the same brisk and even 
 pace, as though they had just started." 
 
 "Hark!" said Cecil; "one of them is humming 
 in low tones some simple air!" 
 
 "It is their usual monotonous chant," said 
 Middleton. 
 
 "It makes one extra drowsy!" Dick complain- 
 ed. "Look! Aimt Seraphina is already visibly and 
 audibly asleep!" 
 
 After listening awhile to the Arab's drowsy 
 song, they all relapsed again into silent langour, 
 overcome by heat and torpor. Slowly the little 
 caravan moved on its way, the camel drivers still 
 singing low beneath the folds of their white haiks. 
 Their strange, mysterious Eastern song seemed to
 
 JMIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 53 
 
 Middleton expressive of great loneliness, and of 
 overpowering solitude in a languorous country of 
 the sun. 
 
 The tents had already gone forward when they 
 dismounted for a rest, and they listlessly reclinea 
 on rugs spread for them on the sand. The long 
 ride, and the hot desert air made this short rest 
 seem quite luxurious to them. 
 
 The Arabs slowly roused themselves to pra;/, 
 and then sank down to rest again in the drowsy 
 warmth of the sun. 
 
 The way was uninteresting and wearisome, so, 
 after another hour in the saddle, it was a relief to 
 reach the luncheon tent, as the heat and total ab- 
 sence of trees to shelter them made lunch in the 
 open air seem almost an impossibility. After nearly 
 three hours' rest, they rode on again, though the 
 heat was still excessive. Tv.'^o hours' ride over a 
 wearisome plain brought them into camp. They 
 had lunched close to where it was to be pitched, 
 and had prolonged their rest so as to allow the 
 tents to pass on, and be ready for them on arrival. 
 
 They travelled more easily next da3\ At one 
 o'clock they halted under a bank, a little way off 
 their track; the gay Eastern carpets were spread 
 for them, and they partook of a light luncheon 
 here.
 
 54 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "This welcome refreshment makes a fellow feel 
 the desert's quite a cheerful place!" said Dick, as 
 he helped himself to the provisions, 
 
 "Look! What is coming, over there?" asked 
 Cecil, shading her eyes with both hands to gaze 
 into the distance. "Lend me your field glasses, 
 p/lease. Uncle James. Something is wrong with 
 mine." 
 
 "It's a long train of camels, appearing and 
 disappearing in the distance," said Middleton, as 
 he raised his excellent field-glasses to his ej^es. 
 "They are mere specks upon the sky-line." 
 
 "How proud and stately thej^ appear, with 
 their long necks and supercilious-looking heads." 
 
 The party rested for an hour that day. An 
 hour before sunset they had pitched their tents. 
 
 The day folloAving, they rode on till they 
 reached the palms of a sweet oasis they had seen 
 fsir off. As they rested here, between the palmsi 
 and acacia trees, they caught glimpses of tho 
 desert. 
 
 Cecil and Middleton stood side by side in the 
 
 shade, looking out into the sunshine. Butterflies 
 were flitting through the golden light, and the 
 soft twittering of bird-notes came from the deep 
 shadows of the trees, falling sweetly on their ears. 
 And lizards glided across the warm stones, and 
 rustled into hiding amongst the fallen leaves.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 55 
 
 t " 'Eloquent of the land where the sun is born!' 
 expresses this scene exactly," Cecil said. 
 
 "The feathery palms look beautiful against 
 this almost cloudless sky," said Middleton. "And 
 the blue distances appear like distant seas." 
 
 "Oh! see that bird pass across the wide blue 
 space of sky towards the hills!" breathed Cecil. 
 "It reminds me of a poem that I read long ago — 
 'Wings of the Morning.' " 
 
 "Did you notice those yellow-plumaged birds 
 with crested heads, running swiftly toAvards the 
 shelter of the scrub?" asked Middleton. "Now 
 one of them is flving low above that bit of level 
 waste. ' ' 
 
 "I love the fresh desert breezes, the sand 
 humps, the birds, and flitting yellow butterflies; I 
 love the golden sunlit silence all around — the few 
 light fleecy clouds, moving slowly away, leaving the 
 blue above unflecked with white. These things are 
 like a beautiful unending poem to me," said Cecil, 
 dreamily. 
 
 "Music and poetry, especially, are for emo- 
 tional souls," said Middleton. "Sometimes I think 
 regretfully that I have wasted ability and time 
 in the number and variety of my pursuits, when I 
 might have concentrated all my energies on one. 
 And yet, the time was not altogether thrown
 
 56 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 away — for all that I have learnt seems capable of 
 being applied somehow to Avhatever I have in hand." 
 
 "Nothing can stand still, I think," said Cecil; 
 "there is bound to be in life the reverse swing of 
 the pendulum — it must either go back or forward — 
 retire or proceed," 
 
 "Do 3^ou remember much of the good things 
 you have read?" 
 
 "My mind is full of odds and ends of litera- 
 ture," answered Cecil. " This wonderful thing that 
 we term Memory is like a phonograph — once spoken 
 into, the sounds will often come to us again," 
 
 "Memory is like a plastic tablet of white 
 stone," said Middleton; "where the impressions 
 harden and remain for ever!" 
 
 "Yet it is impalpable, mysterious, often fleet- 
 ing as a dream — and as intangible!" 
 
 "At moments, strong and clear," said Middle- 
 ton; "but, at times, if we attempt to grasp it, it 
 eludes our eager hold, and it is gone ! It is mere 
 phantasy — mere memory of memories." 
 
 "Let us interpret to each other what we can 
 remember of our past. I pause to listen; and I 
 hear in memory the sounds I used to love. The 
 voices of dear friends; the music I have cared for; 
 snatches of poetry!" 
 
 "In my childhood, the old country sounds,"
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 57 
 
 said Micldleton. *'Tlie funny gobble of the turkej''- 
 cocks; the noisy cackle of the speckled hens; the 
 morning cries of the impatient calves, and the 
 plaintive lowing of their mothers, from the milk- 
 ing sheds. The bleating of the lambs; the eager 
 barking of the dog ; the gentle cooing of the happy 
 pigeons, and the ring-doves in their cote. The mew 
 of a pet kitten, as it ran to my feet." 
 
 "The song of birds," said Cecil; "the warble 
 of canaries as I passed; the swelling music of the 
 organ in our dear old country church; and the 
 fresh, sweet voices of the children, singing hymns. 
 These are phantoms of the old loved sounds I used 
 to hear." 
 
 "What of phantom pictures of the things Vv'e 
 used to see?" 
 
 "Ah! these are grasped more readily." 
 
 "A blue sky, flecked with fleecy clouds, driven 
 gentlj" onwards by a faint breeze that softly fanned 
 one's cheeks, and stiiTed one's hair. The sweet- 
 scented flowers in the old-fashioned garden of my 
 home. Wild strawberries and ripe bramble ber- 
 ries, and the wild, scentless violets I and my brother 
 gathered in the wood, where we wandered in ab- 
 sorbed, unspeakable content. And I recollect the 
 rare keen pleasure that the gathering of yellow 
 buttercups and daisies in the meadows gave me 
 then."
 
 58 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Memories of books," suggested Cecil. ''How 
 enthralled was I in that vast, wonderful, strange 
 world they opened to me, and to which they were 
 the key. A boundless immensity of space, stretch- 
 ing far awaj^ into unknown country, beyond most 
 distant horizons." 
 
 "These vast woods and forests have dwindled 
 away since into small compass," said Middleton, 
 thoughtfully. "The marvellous romances, and the 
 strong reality of characters they conjured up for 
 me, have been swept away now by the common- 
 place. The griefs that were my griefs, the joys 
 that were my own! The heroes and the heroines 
 that claimed my ardent sympathy in all they did and 
 said, and suffered, as I hung enthralled above my 
 book, exist no more for me as in their ancient, 
 strong reality." 
 
 "But though we have lost something," Cecil 
 said, "I know we have gained more. For now it 
 i^ the writers of the books themselves, the souls 
 behind the pen, that speak to us. They appeal to 
 our matured mind, as the tales alone appealed to 
 us before. This have we in gain to compensate us 
 for our loss — though that was great. The vivid 
 imaginings, the fresh impressions, and the strong 
 realities of childhood, are groAvn into something 
 nearer, something dearer, and more real, intense — 
 though not more tangible."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 5<) 
 
 "I can never return to my old favourites," said 
 Middleton. 
 
 "I have indeed outgrown my Proctor, my 
 Evangeline, my Goldsmith," answered Cecil; ''per- 
 haps because I clung too closely to them once. But 
 that which I had feared was dead and lost to me 
 lives again now in the Rubaiyat and Shakespeare. 
 And all the cherished passages I garnered from my 
 earliest readings, I may still retain. In the deep 
 recesses of my memory are they for ever stored; 
 and when they come to light, I feel the purest, 
 deepest, and most perfect joy that any soul can 
 know. Such moments are exquisite ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Memories of friends and sounds, summed up, ' ' 
 said Middleton; "memories of past scenes, and me- 
 mories of books. Surely memory is our most pre- 
 cious gift in life! And, with the Haunted Man in 
 Dickens' 'Christmas Books,' we still may pray, 
 ' Lord, keep my memory green ! ' " 
 
 In thoughtful silence, yet at one with one an- 
 other, they turned presently to rejoin their party. 
 
 When they went on again, the heat of the sun 
 grew more intense, and the breeze had dropped in 
 the treeless waste. Bj'-and-bye they came upon a 
 village, and a little crowd of Arab children out- 
 side it scattered from before the caravan. Arabs 
 in white or blue or earth-coloured robes stood still 
 and stared upon them as they passed.
 
 60 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "As a long ride is before iis on the morrow, 0, 
 my masters," said Ibrahim that evening, "we must 
 be up early, with the rising of the sun, have break- 
 fast, and be off." 
 
 So, after sundown, they dined leisurely outside 
 their tent, and as soon as it got dark they went to 
 bed. 
 
 "The nights are refreshing and cool, after the 
 
 unsparing heat of the daj^s," said Cecil, as she and 
 her aunt were retiring to their tent. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," replied Miss Seraphina. "I 
 can bear a thick coverlet over me, and be quite 
 thankful for it. And my insomnia has been quite 
 cured since I have travelled in the desert!" 
 
 "Women are fearfully and wonderfully made!" 
 said Dick. "But I've never quite believed in that 
 insomnia, if I may trust the evidence of my own 
 ears at night." 
 
 "No matter at what hour we may arrive at an 
 Arab camp or village," said Cecil, "at midnight, 
 early morning, or mid-day, we never seem to be 
 imv.'elcome visitors amongst the Arabs." 
 
 "Yes," said Dick; "their sense of hospitality 
 is truly beautiful. It is unfailing ever!" 
 
 "And the desert Arabs never ask for back- 
 sheesh."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 61 
 
 "At any time," said Mr. Cleveland, "the sheikh 
 ■will arise, turn out his wives and children, have 
 their apartment swept, re-arranged, re-carpeted, for 
 us, and give us coffee whilst our animals are being 
 tended." 
 
 "As for the sweeping," added Dick, "well, the 
 less we sa}^ of that the better ! ' ' 
 
 " 'Who sweeps a room, as for the laws, makes 
 that and the action fine,' can't be applied to them!" 
 said Middleton. 
 
 "Amongst the Arabs here," said Dick, "the 
 action isn't fine — nor is the apartment swept as 
 for the laws! George Herbert 'd turn in his grave 
 if he could only see some of the sweeping!" 
 
 "But the people always wish us a hearty 'sa- 
 laama' as we leave the village," said Mr. Cleveland. 
 "Their sense of hospitality makes full amends for 
 much else that is lacking." 
 
 Next morning, as they were emerging from a 
 rocky gorge out on a wide plain, they found it to 
 be thickly covered in many places with long dry 
 grass and small aromatic shrubs. Herds of grace- 
 ful gazelles, lowering their heads, SAvept galloping 
 across their path, and the two women looked after 
 them with admiring interest. 
 
 The weather was always delightful in the early 
 morning, but even then it was too hot, had it not
 
 62 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "been for a cool breeze. Wlien the heat was great, 
 they rode for three hours only, in the early morn- 
 ing; they had a long rest for lunch, sometimes 
 passed a caravan, or stopped at a small village; then, 
 after another hour's ride, they were in camp again. 
 
 A knot of palm trees usually marked the site 
 of a village or a well ; and there was more of coarse 
 Teed or camel grass growing there in patches. They 
 might have been in the heart of the Sahara, for 
 the huts were primitive and mud-built. The 
 sheikh's house was mud-built like the rest, and at 
 the door the sheikh would come forth to welcome 
 them. 
 
 By-and-bye the sight of a distant oasis gave 
 them promise of water and shade. The tired 
 camels stepped out more briskly, stretching their 
 long necks forward as they went. They all hurried 
 their steps towards this welcome oasis in the de- 
 sert. The camels were tethered, the Arabs placed 
 sleeping mats for the women in the delicious shade 
 of palms; the men grouped themselves around, sit- 
 ting on the short grass beneath the palms, mimosa, 
 and acacia trees; and the whole party threw them- 
 selves down gratefully upon the turf, where the 
 transparent stream purled forth from the shadows, 
 disappearing in the sand beneath their feet. And 
 under the shady palms, the men of the desert, with
 
 ]MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 63 
 
 their sun-browned faces, and keen, bold eyes, turn- 
 ed towards Mecca, gravely bowed their heads in 
 prayer.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "Mirage of the desert!" Cecil exclaimed, as 
 she laid down her book. "How often have I wished 
 to see the mirage I have heard about ! ' ' 
 
 Middleton turned instantly to glance at her. 
 
 "Perhaps we shall see mirage here together — 
 you and I" — he said, in tones intended only for 
 her ear. 
 
 The others were all deep in their occupations, 
 for they were pausing for the Sunday rest. 
 
 Middleton was smoking, thinking, and enjoying 
 the quiet. Dick was fast asleep. Mr. Cleveland 
 was busily engaged in sorting his specimens, and 
 ]\Iiss Seraphina was writing up her voluminous 
 diary. Cecil, who had been absorbed in reading, 
 had looked up suddenl.y from her book to speak 
 to Middleton. 
 
 The Day of Rest came pleasantly to all. Sun- 
 day morning, instead of being one of disturbance 
 and of nois.y packing, was of unusual quiet. Instead 
 of the cries of Arabs, and the shrill protests of 
 camels, there was silence, broken only by an occa-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 65 
 
 sional low voice, or a chance footfall on the sand 
 near to the tents. 
 
 How much appreciated was that day of quiet! 
 The camels were all gone off to graze upon the 
 shrubs; the Arabs lay comfortably asleep amongst 
 their scattered baggage; no sound of the busy 
 world broke the great silence of the wilderness. 
 And they remained quietly in their tents, and felt 
 at home ! 
 
 Middleton rose presently, and stretched him- 
 self lazily. 
 
 "Let us go for a quiet stroll together on the 
 plain," he said, approaching Cecil. 
 
 She rose at once, and got her sheltering hat 
 and veil, and white umbrella, and they passed out 
 together through the encircling encampment. They 
 walked forth side by side upon the wild, free de- 
 sert. The camels were out of sight, hidden behind 
 some sandhills, browsing on the desert scrub. Not 
 a living thing beside themselves was moving on 
 all the surface of the undulating plain, which, be- 
 fore and behind, seemed to stretch away into 
 boundless space. 
 
 "Well," said Middleton at last, "here we are, 
 in full Africa — no civilisation here to trouble us. 
 You vrould scarcely find anything wilder between 
 here and Timbuctoo!" 
 
 E
 
 66 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 He was silent for a little, lost in thought. 
 
 * ' Do you ever feel a painful sense of loneliness, 
 of overwhelming isolation, out upon the desert?" 
 he asked, suddenly. 
 
 "To me it seems unspeakably restful rather," 
 she responded. "This grand expanse is absolutely 
 roadless, peaceful, silent ! And the pure air is soft 
 and light upon one's face!" 
 
 "This limitless expanse," he said, "of stone 
 and sand, "is as old as the world itself. If we 
 could only understand, every atom here could tell 
 us wonderful tales about the past. I wish I had 
 a sand-diviner here to tell me something I would 
 like to know. Misty and silent, the desert brings 
 sad thoughts to me!" 
 
 "Why so?" asked Cecil gently, gazing at him 
 with wondering interest. 
 
 "Because I have a feeling we are in the Land of 
 Unknown Kismet, ' ' he responded, uttering aloud his 
 inmost thought. 
 
 Over the desert an occasional slight misty film 
 of vapour showed itself, for the day was hot. 
 
 "Do you believe in mirage?" asked Cecil softly, 
 looking at the vapour. "Do you believe that it 
 means anything?" 
 
 "Yes, I almost think I do," he answered slowly, 
 looking dreamily before him. "We're at the edge
 
 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 67 
 
 of an oasis, looking even now towards a faint idea 
 of mirage." 
 
 Cecil held out her hand towards the slight 
 shimmering haze, which was now like a veil of finest 
 gauze before their eyes. 
 
 "I don't mean what we see there," she said. 
 *'I mean the fabled mirage of the desert. Is it 
 possible? Does it exist? Can it show us beautiful 
 landscapes, living pictures — can it be entered into — . 
 or can the phantom figures issue out of it?" 
 
 IMiddleton was looking slowly round the silent 
 plain, encircling them, but for a moment, he did 
 not respond. Then he turned to her, and led her 
 to a solitary palm tree, where they paused, and sat 
 down side by side beneath its welcome shade. 
 
 "I have been told that in mirage the objects 
 that one thinks one sees often appear multiplied — 
 but I've seen the mirage of the desert with one soli- 
 tary figure. ' ' 
 
 Cecil turned to him with genuine surprise and 
 interest. 
 
 "I did not know," she said, ''that you had 
 ever seen the mirage of the desert!" 
 
 "I had often heard about the usual kind," 
 said Middleton. ' ' The shimmering vapour on a vast 
 and wide plain of blue, white, red, yellow, green, 
 and of haze. And pictures therein, sometimes of
 
 68 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 phantom palaces, and water, many trees, and men!" 
 
 He sat silent, pondering. 
 
 "But I have actually seen one, too! Let me 
 tell you my story now," he said impulsively; "the 
 one I said that I would tell you — out upon the de- 
 sert!" 
 
 Cecil had turned eagerly and quickly to him. 
 With a dreamy gaze, he looked straight out before 
 him at the desert, and presently began: — 
 
 "A picture rises before my mental view, of 
 what is past — I will interpret to you what I see. 
 
 "An old man lies dying in a luxuriously-fur- 
 nished bedroom in a large and handsome London 
 house. A young man, his son, sits by the bedside, 
 bending forward, his chin resting in his hands, ab- 
 sorbed in watching him. The old man suddenly 
 opens his heavy eyes, and turns to him: 
 
 " 'John, I believe your brother is still living!' 
 
 " 'My brother— Arthur?' 
 
 " 'Yes. I know that you have long believed 
 him to be dead.' 
 
 " 'I understood, from you, he left his home, at 
 his OAvn wish, to go abroad; and that he died there 
 several years ago.' 
 
 " 'I've never told you the real truth of that. 
 I have received no proof that he is dead.' 
 
 " 'Tell me, father, why Arthur left home?'
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 60 
 
 " 'I drove him from it with my cruel v,'ords! 
 He was delicately nurtured, like his mother. I was 
 unjust to him, on your behalf, for you took after 
 my side of the family. I loved you best. I resented 
 Arthur's being the elder of my sons, for I felt that 
 he robbed you. He lived wrapped up in a stu- 
 dious life, in dreams of his own making. Stung by 
 my bitterness, and my injustice, from his dreams, he 
 left his home.' 
 
 ** 'How can we find Arthur now? Can yoa 
 give me no clue?' 
 
 " 'John — I leave to you, my favourite son, the 
 hard legacy of finding him. You are still to me 
 the best and dearest of my sons. I would gladly 
 have robbed Arthur of his rights as eldest, had it 
 lain in my power, in order that I might bestow 
 them on yourself.' 
 
 " 'But the property belongs to him,' the young 
 man answered faintly, greatly troubled; 'it is his 
 by right of birth.' 
 
 " 'Search for him until you find him, John, and 
 bring your brother home again — if possible, before 
 I die!' 
 
 "The old man suddenly half rises in his bed, 
 stretching forth his hands appealingly to the young 
 man. He catches his son's fingers in a nervous 
 clasp. Then, sinking back again, he closes his heavy
 
 70 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 eyes once more, and seems to sleep, still clasping 
 his son's hand closely in his own. 
 
 "The young man sits there motionless awhile. 
 Then a strange sensation, as of strong mesmeric in- 
 fluence, sweeps over him. It is as though he sees 
 the vision that is floating in the dying man's mind — 
 as though the dying man had gained some marvel- 
 lous gift of second sight, and the additional power 
 of passing it on to him. He mn-y perhaps but doze 
 and dream, for he is quite worn out with constant 
 watching b}^ the sick man's side. But still, he 
 seems to see within his father's mind, and to grasp 
 a vision there ! 
 
 "Upon the blank space of the wall comes float- 
 ing presently a silvery haze; an opal-coloured, 
 trembling veil. Then suddenly this opens out into 
 a wide, clear space upon a desert; and he gazes 
 wonderingly far away across the golden sand — • 
 gazes over a sunlit, shimmering waste, where, be- 
 yond the palms of an oasis, within a kind of film, 
 a misty, quivering light, is coming mirage, as yet 
 enshrouded in this mysterious and floating veil of 
 haze. Then this settles slowly, growing almost mo- 
 tionless, as a picture forms itself before him. And 
 he knows he sees the mirage of the desert! 
 
 "And now he sees a figure in Avhite turban, 
 and white flowing robes, the form of a dignified
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 71 
 
 Arab sheikh, mounted upon a snow-white Arab mare 
 of purest desert breed, standing motionless beneath 
 a palm tree. And as he turns his face towards the 
 man who is breathlessly watching him, the latter 
 knows it for his long-lost brother's face, grown 
 grave, and worn, and sad — all the old delicate and 
 blithesome beauty gone from it for ever ; but with a 
 certain look of dignity and intellectual strength that 
 its old early sweetness had never worn. It strikes 
 him vaguely that it is an expression of spiritual ab- 
 negation and of exaltation. Yes! It is Arthur's 
 face — although his form is clothed in this strange 
 garb. And he is alone and waiting — an expectant 
 look upon his face, a look of infinite and gentle pati- 
 ence — a look of patient waiting — but no hope. 
 
 " 'Arthur!' the young man watching cries, im- 
 pulsively. 
 
 ''As he cries out the mirage slowly fades, as 
 though the spell were broken — the desert slowly 
 fades away from view, and the watcher seems to 
 wake as from a dream. 
 
 " 'Father!' he cries aloud. 
 
 "And then again, in agitation — 'Father!' 
 
 "But the old man answers not, nor does he 
 unclose his eyes again. His son bends over him. 
 No breath issues from the pallid lips, or stirs the 
 soft white hair. The father has passed away in his
 
 72 ^.IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 son's brief sleep — if sleep it were. That son bends 
 over him again. 
 
 " 'Father!' he says solemnly, as though the dead 
 could hear; 'I've surely seen my brother — he is liv- 
 ing still, indeed — you bade me search for him — hear 
 my promise, now, that I will seek him till I find him, 
 though it cost me half my life!' 
 
 "A land in the Far East" — mused Middleton, 
 dreamily — "surel}' my quest lay in an Eastern land 
 — for the figure in the mirage stood beneath a palm 
 tree, with a vast and misty desert stretching all 
 around, in its great immensity of emptj' space. Yes, 
 my quest lies in the wind-swept desert!" 
 
 Middleton broke off abruptly, turning to the 
 girl who stood beside him, with an eager look on 
 his bronzed face. 
 
 "Cecil, do you understand, my missing brother 
 ib my quest?" 
 
 And Cecil, with a dawning look of feeling, an- 
 swered softly: 
 
 "Yes — I understand." 
 
 "Thank you for hearing me so patiently," said 
 Middleton, presently. "This time that we have 
 been together in the desert has been to me the hap- 
 piest time of my life." 
 
 Cecil, sitting at his side, with drooping eyelids, 
 answered nothing. ]\Iiddleton longed to tell her
 
 :\IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 73 
 
 what was in his heart, but did not dare, lest he 
 might break the spell. For never yet had he seen 
 Cecil quite like this — so soft, so infinitely dear and 
 sweet — though she was always charming and lov- 
 able. But now she seemed to possess some new-born 
 strength of charm, and the subtle, inner meaning of 
 it, he knew not. 
 
 "Cecil," he said softly, almost trembling, as he 
 bent towards her; "are you happy? Tell me — 
 dear!" 
 
 Cecil raised her eyes to his ; then, with a deep- 
 ened colour, turned her face away towards the de- 
 sert. 
 
 She suddenly exclaimed, in awestruck tones : — 
 
 "Truly are v,'e in the Land of Kismet! — Look!" 
 
 As they both rose to their feet, she turned to 
 
 him, and pointed to the distant desert with her 
 
 hand. 
 
 "Look over there!" she said again — "it is the 
 mirage!" 
 
 They saw the grey, calm Avater of a visionary 
 lagoon; palm-trees standing in it, their trunks laved 
 by it gently. On its limpid surface, here and there, 
 were lovely little islands. 
 
 The trembling, quivering haze seemed moving 
 nearer to them. They held their breath in awe as 
 they gazed at it. And they paw wondrous marble
 
 74 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 palaces appear, and many trees reflected in the 
 , water. 
 
 This faded ; and ihey gazed across a vast, wide 
 plain of shimmering haze, of dazzling, quivering mi- 
 rage. And as they looked, the figure of an Arab 
 ?heikli, in white haik and turban, and flf>wing white 
 robes, mounted upon a snow-white mare of purest 
 Arab breed, was riding slowly .'nto H, away from 
 them. Whence came he? Whither was he going? 
 He still rode quietly on, and disappeared in mirage 
 — dazzling haze ! He had the air of a dream figure 
 in a dream. He seemed part of the mirage that he 
 vanished into. 
 
 "What can this mean?" breathed Cecil, as she 
 stood by jMiddleton, lost in amaze. 
 
 "We see mirage of the desert, Cecil, you and 
 T/' he answered. "And it is even as I saw it in my 
 vision — but my brother's face was turned the other 
 way I I fear that only in deceptive dreams of mi- 
 rage will he appear to me once more!" 
 
 "Mirage is within us," she said, softly, "even 
 as it is far off before us in the desert! I believe 
 that mirage mesmerises our imagination — I believe 
 that it suggests to us strange visions." 
 
 Above them was a sky of faintest blue, with 
 white clouds slowly travelling towards the East. 
 And, as Cecil spoke, a cool wind blew; the quivering
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 75 
 
 haze broke up — and lo ! there was no horseman rid- 
 ing there — they were alone together on the silent, 
 boundless plain!
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The whole of Sunday had been most quiet and 
 peaceful. The day following, all was reversed, and 
 the usual noise and bustle of packing recommenced. 
 
 They had a trying journej^ and determined to 
 pitch camp early, as all of them were thoroughly 
 tired out. By the time the camp was pitched twi- 
 light was falling. Wind was also rising, and soon 
 there was a strong breeze, in which myriads of mi- 
 nute sand-grains danced. It was a chilly evening, 
 but a charcoal fire soon cheered and warmed the 
 tent within, and a little later some excellently-made 
 hot coffee was brought to them. 
 
 During the night it blew hard, increasing to 
 a gale. It was too vret to strike camp next day, 
 but they determined to pass the hours pleasantly. 
 The wind had sunk; they could no longer hear it 
 roaring over the desert. And in the tents they w^ere 
 all snug and warm. 
 
 "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good!" 
 said Dick; "I, for one, am enjoying this immense- 
 ly."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 77 
 
 *'I am thinking of writing my autobiography," 
 announced Miss Seraphina. "Only think, how well 
 these experiences would come in. My diary is al- 
 ready valuable!" 
 
 "The worst of it," said Dick, "is that the only 
 people who are interested in us are ourselves. And 
 you can't tell us much about yourself that v\'e don't 
 know already." 
 
 "I hope I shall soon have an opportunity of 
 studying the Arab women," observed Miss Sera- 
 phina. ignoring Dick's remark. 
 
 "Why do the Arabs believe that their women 
 possess no souls, and that they have no chance o£ 
 going to Paradise?" said Dick to Middleton. "It 
 seems to me to be a heartless kind of doctrine. I 
 wonder whether this belief of theirs is bound to 
 affect the ultimate destiny of the Arab ladies?" 
 
 "It has indeed been their belief from time im- 
 memorial," said Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "Of course, the Arab women have no souls!" 
 Miss Seraphina said. "They haven't been educated 
 up to having souls, so how can they possess them? 
 And, how can they possibly enter Paradise without 
 them?" 
 
 "Ah! that remark, made by a woman, appears 
 to throw more than a little light upon the matter, 
 to my thinking." said Dick, reflectively.
 
 78 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ''We have religious tenets and convictions, and 
 mean well." 
 
 "Oh, these religious tenets and convictions, and 
 this meaning well," said Dick, disdainfully. 
 
 "I recollect a conversation between a bigoted 
 Presbj'terian and his friend," said Middleton. *So 
 you won't have Patrick in your service?' said the 
 latter. You've rejected suddenly a man who ap- 
 peared at first to give you satisfaction. What may 
 be the reason of your present disapproval?' *I 
 have rejected him because he's a Roman Catholic' 
 'He is an excellent servant — he understands his 
 ■duties thoroughly? Is he not sober, honest, of un- 
 impeachable integrit}'^ ? ' 'He is all you say,' return- 
 ed the other. 'Still, the fact remains that he's a 
 Roman Catholic. I cannot take Roman Catholics 
 into my service.' 'Have you anything to say against 
 his character?' 'No, nothing — absolutely nothing,' 
 said the other, hastily. 'Then I must say I think 
 you're extremely bigoted,' returned his friend. 'You 
 admit that Patrick is a valuable servant, and you've 
 nothing to say against his character — yet you re- 
 ject the man because his religious convictions are 
 different from your own. I suppose that you want 
 everyone to think in your own way?' " 
 
 "Well, wild horses couldn't alter my opinions 
 to suit anybody else," declared Miss Seraphina.
 
 I\riRAGE OF THE DESERT. 79 
 
 "Wild horses have never been tried," respond- 
 ed Dick, "so how can you tell?" 
 
 "I could bear them like the Spartan boy," re- 
 turned Miss Seraphina. 
 
 "Like the Spartan idiot!" said Dick. "Be- 
 sides, he hadn't wild horses, but a fox to worry 
 him." 
 
 "Miss Aurora Smith, on board the 'Victoria,' 
 struck me as being an extremely modest lady," said 
 Mr. Cleveland, breaking in upon the conversation. 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that!" said Dick, "Her 
 vanit}^ was unsurpassable. And as for temper, I've 
 known the sun to set upon her wrath. Her friends 
 were like relays of post horses all along the road. 
 The ones she leaves behind her at the stopping 
 places, so to speak, she never takes up again. There 
 was Mrs. Peterkin,' a friend she made 'board ship. 
 At first they swore eternal friendship — then discord 
 began. One afternoon the ladies had been ashore 
 at a port we were stopping at. On returning to 
 the ship they entered the saloon, and asked for tea. 
 Aurora took off her much befeathered hat, and 
 placed it on a seat, and ]\Irs. Peterkin sat down with- 
 out observing it. She said afterwards that she 
 mistook it for a cushion. Aurora didn't say much 
 to her, but her looks were unutterable; and I was
 
 80 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 pained by overhearing what she said to I^.Irs. Green 
 about her afterwards." 
 
 ''This talk about best hats and feathers makes 
 me feel quite homesick for the latest fashions," said 
 Miss Seraphina, pensively. "I could almost wish 
 we had some shops here o>. the desert. I should 
 enjoy a short run home to London, and an hour's- 
 shopping!" 
 
 "The weasr' ahvays wants to be where it iij 
 not," observed Dick, cheerfully. It'll cross the 
 water to get over to the other side — and then when 
 it is there, it wants to cross again, to get back to 
 where it started from. I see now we've been con- 
 tented here because we thought we could return at 
 anytime, according to our own sweet will." 
 
 "Are you in pain, Miss Smythe?" asked Mid- 
 dleton, sympathetically. 
 
 "I have toothache," said Miss Seraphina, plaint- 
 ively. 
 
 "Smile on a woman, and she'll tell j'ou all her 
 troubles!" Dick exclaimed. 
 
 "I should like to see a dentist," said his aunt. 
 "Why are there no dentists in the desert?" 
 
 "They'd be so useful here!" said Dick. "Their 
 practice 'd be immense! Try the Imagination Cure. 
 Let Mustafa approach with pincers, and imagine 
 he's a dentist, and the pain will leave you. I don't
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 81- 
 
 speak without some knowledge of the matter. I 
 once saw a man sitting on the steps of a dentist's 
 offices in London. "When I passed there some hours 
 later, he was still sitting on the steps. In answer 
 to my question, he said he had an aching tooth, and 
 that this was the only place where he got rest." 
 
 ''Why didn't he have it out?" asked Middle- 
 ton. 
 
 "Because the pain got better when he got to 
 the dentist's door!" 
 
 "All this nonsense does not ease my suffering!" 
 his aunt said, petulantly. 
 
 ' ' To endure calamities with patience is the mark 
 of a valiant mind," said Dick. 
 
 "Everyone can bear the toothache but he that 
 has it," murmured Middleton. 
 
 "There never was a philosopher who could 
 endure the toothache patiently," said Dick. "How- 
 ever bad things are, look on the bright side; be 
 cheerful, and don't w^orry!" 
 
 "I wish I was dead!" returned Miss Seraphina. 
 bitterl3^ 
 
 "Don't say you wish you were dead! Think ot 
 the bright and happy future yet in store for you. 
 Wlien the time came, how grieved you'd be that yon 
 were not there to enjoy it!"
 
 82 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "I wonder if Morocco is like Algiers?" said 
 
 Cecil. 
 
 "I have been told by an old traveller that the 
 city is now mere crumbling ruins," said Llr. Cleve- 
 land. "He told me it had fallen again, and that 
 it is now but a great straggling and half-ruined 
 town." 
 
 "What part of it is Fez?" 
 
 "Fez is the most important town of the whole 
 empire of Morocco," 
 
 "Can you describe Morocco?" 
 
 "My travelling acquaintance told m.e it is wall- 
 ed by high, strong walls, like most Oriental towns. 
 He said: 'One passes through a dark gateway in 
 mud walls, and along dark, narrow walls of sand- 
 strewn, silent streets, where there are crumbling 
 Tiiins of houses on each side. Outside the city one 
 enters at once on open country. There are high- 
 v/alled villages and enclosed gardens.' " 
 
 "I've heard of celebrated palm groves theru," 
 said MiddletoD. "Can you tell us anything about 
 them?" 
 
 "I believe there are manj^ miles of palm-trees. 
 Everywhere the air hangs heavy with the odour of 
 the ripe dates in these beautiful, sweet-scented 
 groves."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 83 
 
 ''Had this traveller ever wandered on the moun- 
 tains near Morocco?" 
 
 "No. He said the mountains were forbidden 
 ground to travellers, because of wild hordes of rob- 
 bers there." 
 
 "I have the notion that the Moors are a very 
 learned people," Cecil said. 
 
 "They were so, once. Now they are scarcel}' 
 better than savages," said Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "I propose we all do something to amuse each 
 other," suggested Middleton. "Each one must 
 contribute their share to the common entertain- 
 ment." 
 
 "I could sing very well if I'd a voice," said 
 Dick. "As I can't sing, I will recite for you!" 
 
 So Cecil sang some of her most charming 
 songs ; Dick recited to them in his most heroic 
 fashion ; and Middleton and Mr. Cleveland told 
 some of their best stories of adventure. 
 
 By-and-b3^e they got Mustafa in; they had dis- 
 covered he was a born storj^-teller of the East ; and 
 ]\liddleton translated his Arabic into English for 
 the benefit of the rest. 
 
 Then they started singing glees. The merry 
 songs within the little tent, having the accompani- 
 ment of pouring rain beating on the canvas walls 
 outside.
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 A bright morning made the desert cheerful, and 
 soon the little caravan was once more en route. 
 
 There was a peculiar dazzle in the air. 
 
 "It is not with heat," said Middleton, per- 
 plexedly, "yet the air seems to be swimming." 
 
 As they went on, a fiery breath of hot wind 
 passed by, meeting them from the East. 
 
 "It came suddenly; a glowing blast which 
 seemed to scorch my face as it went by," said 
 Middleton. 
 
 "Is this the breath of the Kliamseen?" asked 
 Mr. Cleveland. "I have heard something of the 
 horrors of the Kliamseen!" 
 
 "It may perhaps be a forerunner of the dreaded 
 Simoon!" said Middleton, anxiously. 
 
 "That hot wind does not return, however," 
 Cecil said. 
 
 "That blast came to us straight from the In- 
 fernal Regions of the Arabs!" Dick exclaimed. 
 
 "It has gone on its wild way, and it returns to 
 us no more." said Mr. Cleveland.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 85 
 
 Middleton, who had turned back to speak with 
 the Arabs, now rejoined them. 
 
 "The Arabs say that a change is certainly ap- 
 proaching in the weather." 
 
 "Then the curious swimming in the air, and 
 that hot gust, are the almost certain precursors of 
 a Khamseen wind?" asked Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "That is the land wind, is it not?" asked Cecil. 
 
 "Yes. It comes warm and heavy, laden with 
 finest particles of sand. We were bound to experi- 
 ence it some time on our journey." 
 
 Suddenly a strong wind swept over them in a 
 gust; the Arabs talked again of a IQiamseen. That 
 terror of travellers was certainly at hand. It was 
 increasing each half-hour, as they toiled on their 
 way. It had novv' filled the air with sand, and they 
 could only see each other distinctly at a few yards' 
 ■distance. 
 
 Ibrahim, as usual, led the way, and the whole 
 party, afraid of straying from the track, followed 
 in single file. Around them was the sand-storm, and 
 then they entered among the low, dark sand-hills. 
 Only the roaring of the dreaded Kliamseen could 
 be heard amongst the hollows. Everyone was busy 
 wrapping up their head from the fine, penetrating 
 sand.
 
 86 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Then a flash of lightning broke through the 
 gathering gloom, and a peal of thunder burst over 
 their heads; in another minute rain began to fall 
 in heavy drops, and then it poured with the fierce 
 downpour of the rare but terrible storm of the de- 
 sert. 
 
 The wind fell a little as the rain increased, and 
 their baggage and the Arabs were all huddled up 
 under shelter of the tent, half up. Everj^ man had 
 to hold on to it to keep it from being blown over, 
 or away altogether. 
 
 The gusts ceased by degrees, the rain stopped, 
 the Arabs threw back their hoods, which had been 
 drawn over their heads; a fresh place was found 
 for the tent, and soon cheerful lights were burning 
 in them. Then carpets and mats were spread ; and 
 by-and-bye Mustafa brought them freshly-made, hot 
 coffee. 
 
 '* Could there be a worse storm than we had to- 
 day?" asked Cecil, as she received her welcome 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 "I've heard of one." said Middleton, "when the 
 caravan had to lie down, man and beast, until the 
 storm was over." 
 
 "We have so mary damp articles to dry, that 
 we will be unable to start before mid-day to-mor- 
 row," Mr. Cleveland said, with some annoyance.
 
 IkllRAGE OF THE DESERT. 87 
 
 ''My bag's had a big hole jagged in it," said 
 Dick, ruefully, approaching them. "It reminds me 
 of Uncle Benjamin and his new Gladstone bag. I 
 don't know what strange freak made him buy it. 
 for he never went from home ; and he had put it 
 carefully away on a high shelf. He suddenly de- 
 cided he would go away for a week 's holiday. When 
 he began to pack, he could not find his nice new 
 Gladstone bag. 'Your Gladstone bag?' said Aunt 
 Selina; 'well, as you never used it, I've been lending 
 it about amongst your friends.' 'You'd no right to 
 lend it,' Uncle Ben. said, ^^Tathfully. 'I got the bag 
 to go away with for a trip.' 'You?' said Aunt Se- 
 lina, scornfully; 'why, what's the good of your 
 having anything to go away with for a trip. You 
 root 3'ourself in one place. You're a dead fixture 
 here. There 'd be a mighty upheaval and a great 
 uprooting if yon tried to stir. Don't be a dog in the 
 manger, Benjamin! You'd never have used that 
 Gladstone bag yourself!' 'Don't talk so much,' he 
 said. I object to women's talk on principle — talk- 
 ing makes more talk. It's like perpetual drops of 
 water wearing stone away. Drop ! drop ! drop ! Al- 
 though one may despise it, it's enough to drive one 
 mad! And any^vay, this time I'm really going 
 from home!' 'So you've often told me, Benjamin. 
 This time I'll have you drugged and bundled off
 
 88 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 up-country for your long-put-off-and-greatly-need- 
 ed-holiday.' 'Who'd do the packing for me, pray, 
 if I were drugged?' 'You, yourself!' quoth Aunt 
 Selina, sharply, 'before we drugged you. Young 
 Mr. Calvert has your bag just now. You'll get it 
 back to-nightc' That same evening a shabby and 
 dilapidated leather bag was brought to Uncle Ben, 
 with Mr. Calvert's compliments and thanks; and it 
 had been most serviceable. I thought so, too, when 
 1 saw the big hole that had been jagged in it where 
 it had been roughly hauled over an old tree-stump 
 on a shooting trip. Uncle Ben. had to pay a coun- 
 try saddler half-a-crown to put a clumsy patch on 
 it." 
 
 A week later the travellers had experience of 
 a sand-storm, with the proverbial "devils" of the 
 desert. After seven or eight o'clock in the morning 
 the sun was very powerful, and during the greater 
 
 If 
 
 portion of the day clouds of dust and columns of 
 sand were frequently swept across the plain like 
 large water-spouts. One day about noon, one of 
 these columns of dark, red sand, coming up with 
 amazing rapidity, turning and twisting in whirl- 
 wind, seized their tent with great violence ; the tent- 
 pegs were drawn, the ropes flew about, and in a 
 moment the tent was vrhirled around, turned inside 
 out like an umbrella in a storm, and everything
 
 I\IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 89 
 
 capsized. Ibrahim clung fast to the centre-pole of 
 the tent, and after a hard struggle the Arah;i 
 brought the tent to ground again, and the whirl- 
 wind had passed b}'. 
 
 "The tents are sandy," Dick complained; "the 
 camels are very sandy; we're all covered with sand, 
 and our eyes are full of sand ! I know now thor- 
 oughly what a sand-storm may be like." 
 
 They stopped here for a couple of days, for it 
 was cold, with high wind and heavy rain till 
 afternoon. They drank hot tea and coffee, to keep 
 warm. 
 
 The old dragoman had told them that a well- 
 known sheikh named Ahmed Bey had his village a 
 few days' journey further on, and they determined 
 on a visit there. 
 
 One evening, after dinner, they all sat round 
 the great camp fires and told strange tales of ad- 
 venture to each other. Where a large group of 
 Arabs sat round their fire, there was unusual ear- 
 nestness upon the story-teller's part, and the Arabs 
 were intently hearkening to him, absorbed in inter- 
 est. For he was unusually vivid, even brilliant, in 
 narration, apt in gesture, a born story-teller of the 
 East ; and he held his little audience enchained. 
 
 Middleton approached, and stood behind the
 
 90 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 group, and hearkened with them. Just then, an 
 Arab threw fresh brushwood on the fire, and he 
 could see the story-teller's face. 
 
 It was iMustafa, who was relating in Arabic 
 some story of an alien stranger, who, long before, 
 had arrived amongst the Arabs of the desert. 
 
 "Mysteriously he appeared amongst them, rid- 
 ing a white camel," said Mustafa. "He wore white 
 haik and turban, and flowing white Arab robes, 
 which streamed upon the wind. On his hand he 
 wore a ring, in which was set a strange and un- 
 known stone, engraved with unknown characters, 
 and to which the Arabs afterwards attributed mys- 
 terious potency. And the old sheikh of the tribe 
 looked upon the stranger with affection, and re- 
 ceived him as a son, for he had only daughters, 
 Allah having denied him sons. He loved him well, 
 and gave him place, and power, and honour in his 
 tribe. Then, one day, finding himself about to de- 
 part on the far journey, he said unto the Arabs : — 
 'Let me depart in peace. I have no son of mine own 
 blood — Lo ! here is my successor. Surely his com- 
 ing hither hath been a sign from Allah. Accept this 
 stranger, whom I love, even as thy sheikh of sheikhs 
 — lest the sons of Sheitan per adventure may return 
 again to smite ye.' 
 
 "And the old sliiekh prevailed amongst the
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 91 
 
 Arabs, Therefore, when he died, the stranger ruled 
 his donar in his stead, as his successor ; because the 
 sheikh had left behind no son. And the Arabs have 
 a superstitious reverence for him, holding him in 
 awe, because they think he is descended from 
 Mahomet, Allah's Prophet, and sent here to the 
 desert to guide His chosen people unto Paradise. 
 
 "He is also a great Prophet in the Sahara de- 
 sert, far and near. And all of Arab blood attribute 
 to him strange, mysterious power, owing, partly, to 
 the unknown strange gem he wears upon his finger. 
 And they say he can divine the future in it, as the 
 sand-diviner can divine- the future in the countless 
 grains of sand. And never yet hath he been seen 
 Mnthout it ; therefore must it verily be some ancient 
 talisman and charm. 
 
 "And he hath now great power, and an un- 
 limited control amongst the desert tribes — even to 
 the farthest corners of the desert — his sway ex- 
 tendeth everywhere. For many are his messengers, 
 from the far parts of the desert, and he knoweth 
 all. He is All-powerful. He controls his people — 
 yet is he seldom seen of men. When the light of 
 his countenance falls sometimes on them, lo ! then do 
 his people tremble, stricken by their fear. And his 
 name amongst the People of the Desert is 'The Great 
 Solitary One ' ; because he is so seldom seen of men ;
 
 92 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and, moreover, he hath taken unto him no wife', 
 and hath no children round him, but he dwells 
 alone." 
 
 As Mustafa related this story of the mysterious 
 solitary sheikh, with his bronzed countenance so 
 earnest as he spoke, and the other Arabs with their 
 quiet, impassive faces, all intent upon the story, 
 lying round in every posture in the firelight, Mid- 
 dleton could have fancied he was living in a mystic 
 storj' of the old Arabian Nights. 
 
 "We will make a journey to the douar of this 
 great sheikh," said Middleton, to the assembled 
 Arabs, as Mustafa ceased. "For greatly should I 
 like to make acquaintance with the sheikh of all the 
 sheikhs." 
 
 The chorus of reclining Arabs near the fire rose 
 in a low murmur of approval. 
 
 Next morning they rose early. Ibrahim was 
 already sitting at the open door of his own tent, en- 
 joj'ing the pure freshness of the early morning be- 
 fore the heat became great ; watching his men load- 
 ing the camels for the day's journe3^ 
 
 A little before noon they were passing a fold 
 in the sandhills; and on the crest of one of these 
 hills they perceived a distant figure. As the cara- 
 van approached, they could see a mounted Arab 
 coming toAvards them, as though to reconnoitre,
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 93 
 
 shaking his great spear. He wheeled round sudden- 
 ly and disappeared behind the sandhill, and they 
 saw him no more. 
 
 The vast plain stretched away before them level 
 as a sea. They journeyed drowsily upon their drom- 
 edaries beneath a blazing sun. 
 
 At the mid-day halt Middleton was walking 
 apart from the rest, when he became aware of a 
 shadow suddenly falling upon him. Turning, he 
 perceived a dromedary bearing down upon him 
 swiftly, its sponge-like hoofs making so little noise 
 on the soft sand that he had not heard it coming. 
 On the back of the dromedary sat a black-bearded 
 swarthy Arab. The Arab stopped his dromedary, 
 commanded it to kneel, slipped down from th^ 
 saddle, and spoke to Ibrahim. 
 
 "What is thy name, thy business here, and what 
 do ye desire?" 
 
 ''We wish to visit the tents of Ahmed Bey,"^ 
 said Ibrahim. "Wilt thou guide us there?" 
 
 Muttering something in his beard, the Arab re- 
 moimted, and guided his dromedary towards him. 
 
 "I am Ghudda. I belong to the house of Ah- 
 med Bey, the sheikh of yonder douar. And I will 
 guide ye to him." 
 
 He pointed to the distance as he spoke. 
 
 The luncheon tent was then struck and loaded,.
 
 94 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 along with the piled-iip luggage, on the camels, and 
 within half an hour the procession was moving on- 
 ward. When they had gone some distance, Ibrahim 
 who was in advance, turned back, and announced in 
 a troubled voice, that a band of mounted men was 
 advancing upon them. Suddenly, without any 
 sound beyond the soft beat of the unshod hoofs in 
 the sand, a band of about a dozen riders came tear- 
 ing out from amongst the sandhills at a wild gallop. 
 
 The eager black eyes of all these Arabs were 
 unusually bright and keen. They wore loose white 
 burnouses, and shrouding white headgear half con- 
 cealed their swarth.y, bearded faces. 
 
 After a hurried word apart with Ghudda they 
 wheeled and galloped off again, leaving the caravan 
 to proceed upon its way.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 At length the travellers came in sight of a 
 distant Arab donar. As they approached, the hush 
 was broken by a sound of many voices, and the 
 barking of dogs. 
 
 "The village appears to be quite close at hand," 
 said Cecil. 
 
 "But we ride on for a long time without seem- 
 ing to get any nearer," Dick complained. 
 
 "A horseman is now rapidly approaching us," 
 «aid Middleton. "He appears to be an Arab, riding 
 at full speed." 
 
 "On he comes, lance in hand. Is he friend or 
 foe, I wonder?" Cecil said, a little anxiously. 
 
 "See," said Middleton, "as he nears us he 
 reverses his lance, so that the butt is advanced to- 
 V\^ards us instead of the point." 
 
 "What does that mean?" asked Dick. 
 
 "It is the Arab sign of peace and welcome." 
 
 As he drew near, the horseman spoke to Ibra- 
 ham in his own tongue, and told him he came straight 
 from the tents of Ahmed Bay.
 
 96 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Wilt thou conduct us there?" asked Ibrahim, 
 
 "I will do so. We have had word of thy com- 
 ing. I am come to meet ye, and to guide thy party 
 thither. Tarry here yet a little while with Ghudda, 
 whilst I go back to Ahmed Bey to tell him ye have 
 arrived. ' ' 
 
 He galloped back to the tents, and soon re- 
 turned again. Ibrahim now turned to Mr. Cleveland 
 to interpret the Arab's words to him. 
 
 "This horseman tells us Ahmed Bey is unavoid- 
 ably detained in camp; but he hath sent two kins- 
 men to meet us and conduct us to his tent." 
 
 Soon they were met by the sheikh's kinsmen, 
 who conducted them to the village. The younger 
 of the two Arabs rode straight up to the sheildi's 
 house. There was a slight stir and movement 
 amongst the people round. A large and powerfully- 
 made Arab was seen to issue forth, and to jump on 
 the back of a mare, and ride forward to meet the 
 part}'. 
 
 The sheikh rode up to them, and asked if they 
 had peace. 
 
 "Those who bring peace, find it," added he. 
 
 "We bring peace," said Ibrahim, answering for 
 the party. 
 
 Whereupon they exchanged salutations gravely,.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 97 
 
 and the sheikh rode back with them towards his 
 village. Springing from his mare's back, he bade 
 them welcome, and brought them into his house. 
 Carpets and cushions were arranged, and they sat 
 or reclined on them, and coffee was prepared. They 
 were offered balls of spice, and afterwards hot cof- 
 fee ; whilst a small tent apart was being prepared 
 for the ladies. 
 
 The sheikh's house was situated nearly in the 
 centre of the village. They entered a large court, 
 open to the sky, each part forming a separate apart- 
 ment ; of these, some were used as sleeping cham- 
 bers, others for stables, store-houses, and granaries ; 
 and most of them were entered by low doorways. 
 
 The cheerful fire in the middle of the sheikh's 
 house gave the wearied travellers a sense of com- 
 fort. By-and-bye they all partook of supper, which 
 consisted of stewed mutton and rice, called by the 
 Arabs kous-kous. It was served in a large, round 
 iron dish. The dish was garnished with an ample 
 supply of large, thin wheaten cakes. Both mutton 
 and rice were excellently cooked, and served up 
 smoking hot. 
 
 They were given their own tents apart, and 
 night soon closed in on them. Carpets were spread, 
 cushions placed for pillows, and rich, thicklj^-quilt- 
 ed coverlets were brought to cover them when they
 
 98 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 desired to sleep. Coffee and large Arab cakes were 
 served for them. 
 
 Next day the ladies visited the harem, and they 
 all had a better opportunity of making the acquaint- 
 ance of their hosts. 
 
 "Ibrahim tells me Alimed Bey is a great war- 
 rior," said Middleton; "and his fame is widely 
 spread. His body is covered with scars. I said 
 to him: — 'I suppose you have had enough fighting?' 
 Ahmed Bey replied, indignantly: — 'Would'st have 
 me die in my bed like a Khavajah of Jedaide? No! 
 I will die on the back of my mare.' I should say 
 that he is bold, courageous, dashing, perhaps cruel," 
 added Middleton; "but not mercenary." 
 
 "He is largely and powerfully made," said Mr. 
 Cleveland, "even for an Arab. His shoulders are 
 very broad, and his limbs are full and muscular, and 
 finely developed." 
 
 "His face is handsome," said Middleton, "al- 
 though his features are large and rather hard. His 
 complexion is much darkened by exposure to the 
 sun and Aveather." 
 
 "Mustafa says it is his pride to be well mount- 
 ed," observed Dick. "He keeps five or six mares 
 for his own riding, and attendants on dromedaries 
 to lead them." 
 
 "I have been shown his lance," said Mr. Oleve-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 99 
 
 land. "It is of unusual weight and length, with 
 the head engrained with silver." 
 
 "Ibrahim says it is carried after him on expedi- 
 tions by a follower on horseback. A formidable 
 mace hangs from his saddle," added Middleton. 
 
 "He seems careless of his personal appearance. 
 IMahmoud Bey is unlike his cousin in particular of 
 dress. He is very neat and scrupulous in his at- 
 tire ; his white underclothing is spotless, surmounted 
 I)y his plain black aba. Mahmoud Bey has the ad- 
 dress of a gentleman. He is very handsome, quiet, 
 and sedate." 
 
 "Ibrahim tells me he is crafty and subtle," 
 commented Middleton, "and warns me not to trust 
 him." 
 
 "I understand there is an anecdote concerning 
 Mahmoud 's favourite mare Feyruzah," said Mr. 
 ■Cleveland, with some interest. "Do you know the 
 story, Middleton?" 
 
 "Yes. Mustafa told me. Feyruzah is Arabic 
 for Turquoise. She was foaled in the desert when 
 i\[ahmoud Bey was on an expedition ; unable to tarry, 
 he was compelled to leave the foal behind to perish. 
 But when he was resting under a palm, to his de- 
 light and astonishment, it came up with him. The 
 plucky youngster had followed its mother's trail. It 
 became its master's favourite mare."
 
 100 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "MeshoAV appears to notice everything," said 
 Cecil ; ' ' and such things as please his eye, he seemsi 
 to like to feel with his fingers. His touch is ex- 
 tremely delicate." 
 
 "That is characteristic of the Arabs," answered 
 Middleton. ''This nephew of Ahmed Bey's is the 
 orphan son of the late sheikh of a desert tribe, and 
 of the best and purest Arab blood. He is about 
 eighteen." 
 
 "His foot is the most perfect model I have ever 
 seen," said Cecil. 
 
 "Meshow himself is a perfect model of an 
 Arab," returned Middleton; "spare and slight, and 
 not largely proportioned, like Ahmed Bey, but 
 sinewy and fine-drawn, as of steel." 
 
 "The whole movement of the man has grace 
 and simple dignity," said Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "Yes. It betokens ancient blood in purity," re- 
 sponded Middleton. 
 
 "I feel sure he is of poetic temperament," said 
 Cecil, thoughtfully. "Many of the Arabs are poeti- 
 cal. 'Eloquent of the land where the sun is born!' 
 Meshow is silent, and his face is gentle and serious, 
 with beautiful features, and deep, glowing eyes." 
 
 "Frequently at morning and evening in the 
 douar, I hear the loud and hearty voice of Alimed
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 101 
 
 Bej^," said Mr. Cleveland; "that of Meshow — 
 never." 
 
 ' ' That "was a beautiful curved sword, with silver 
 hilt, hung by a leather strap from Meshow 's should- 
 er!" Dick exclaimed, with admiration. "I'd be 
 happy if I could procure a sword like that amongst 
 the Arabs here." 
 
 The party sojourned at this douar for some 
 days. The time was of especial interest to Dick 
 and Cecil, as they wandered about the village with 
 Middleton. The wreaths of smoke curled lightly 
 upwards on the pure air. Women were grinding 
 corn in primitive hand-mills, or were busy winding 
 wool on wooden sticks. A young girl was filling a 
 goatskin pitcher at a well beneath a palm-tree. Two 
 or three Arabs came up and stood near, gravely 
 observant of the travellers. 
 
 Passing out presently through the village into 
 the near desert, they saw the palm groves, and be- 
 yond, the arid, sunburnt tracts. They stood here 
 awhile, luxuriously bathed in heat and silence. 
 
 Beyond them lay the sunlit face of the great 
 desert. In the distance, amongst palms, appeared 
 it number of low flat huts of brown earth. The 
 occasional fitful breeze gently stirred their hair; a 
 cool, soft breeze, perfumed with scent of flowers 
 from the sweet oasis, whence came, too, soft twit- 
 tering of birds.
 
 102 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 As they were returning to the village they met 
 a flock of goats, pattering towards the edge of the 
 oasis; a little Arab shepherd was playing carelessly 
 upon his pipe amongst his goats. Many blending 
 noises came to them, softened by the distance, on the 
 gentle breeze. Faint calls of labourers to one an- 
 other, as they toiled in the palm-groves, and of wo- 
 men at the wells; merry chattering of Arab child- 
 ren ; the dull bark of kabyle dogs. 
 
 The incessant murmur of the mingled voices 
 came to them in fitful waves of sound. The many 
 sounds of the d'ouar were vague, and mingled 
 vaguely together, composing one low, soothing 
 sound. 
 
 Each morning and evening picturesque and busy 
 scenes were to be seen at the open wells, where large 
 numbers of the people congregated to draw and 
 carry water ; and those who led up animals to water 
 formed an expectant circle outside. At other times, 
 veiled women might be seen at the wells; they 
 poised their jars by uplifting their shapely brown 
 bare arms, decorated with massive silver bangles, 
 worn even by the poorest of them, dwelling in mud 
 huts. 
 
 Immense herds of camels were taken out every 
 morning to pasture, and returned in the evening. 
 
 The Arab dress v/as very simple at encampment.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 103 
 
 One long garment, reaching below the knees, a kind 
 of smock-frock, of whitey-brown colour, closing at 
 the neck, with fnll, loose sleeves, and fastened round 
 the waist with a broad leather belt — this with a 
 skull-cap, and sometimes a pair of slippers, composed 
 their desert toilette. 
 
 The ladies gave their experiences of the harem, 
 where they spent a bad half-hour in the clutches of 
 half a dozen volatile Arab ladies. They were re- 
 ceived by the three young wives of the sheikh. The 
 last married was the favourite, and she was extreme- 
 ly pretty. There were three older wives, who had 
 had their day; but the most perfect harmony reign- 
 ed in the harem. 
 
 "It is quite clear that the law here is unques- 
 tioning obedience," said ]\Iiddleton. 
 
 "In plain English," answered Dick, "it's not 
 love in a cottage amongst the Arabs, but love and 
 a big stick!" 
 
 "Do women prefer divinity — equality — or mas- 
 tery — another word for slavery?" suggested Mr. 
 Cleveland. 
 
 "Is marriage a failure?" queried jMiddleton. 
 
 "I've heard it said, it generally means the right 
 a Avoman gains to go through a man's pockets when 
 he is asleep," said Dick.
 
 104 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "You recollect the story of the well of St. 
 Keyne?" said Mr. Cleveland. "The first to drink 
 the water of this well is said to obtain mastery over 
 the household. I heard of a husband hurrying from 
 church to the well — but his wife had been beforehand 
 with him, for she had taken a bottle of the water 
 to church with her." 
 
 "It appears to me that courtship and marriage 
 
 may be illustrated thus : First they give way to one 
 
 another, and afterwards they don't." 
 
 The ladies gave their experiences of the harem 
 
 privately. 
 
 "One old lady asked us many personal ques- 
 tions," Cecil said, "as to our harems, ages, and 
 sc forth." 
 
 "She asked me if I was a 'passed wife' of my 
 own brother's," said Miss Seraphiua, bridling indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "She had taken Uncle James for a great sheikh 
 in his own country," said Cecil, laughing. 
 
 "She would not believe me when I said I was 
 unmarried," said Miss Seraphina, evidently flatter- 
 ed, and blushing with an ancient but becoming 
 modest.y. 
 
 "I suppose she then commenced a careful ex- 
 amination of your dress and ornaments?" said Dick.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 105 
 
 "And purloined Auntie's bracelet for her own 
 brown arm," said Cecil, much amused at vivid 
 recollections of their visit to the harem; "cordially 
 requesting her to make her a backsheesh thereof. 
 Aunt Seraphina heartily demurred. "Whereupon the 
 lady asked feelingly for some of Aunty's hair to 
 put in the locket she had stolen from her neck. You 
 W'Ould scarcely think Aunt Seraphina could refuse 
 it as a keepsake after that! But our Aunty is 
 strong-minded. She not onh^ could, but did refuse. 
 And the lady of the harem returned the ornaments 
 to their rightful owner very sullenly." 
 
 "She wished to take out my dear Great-Uncle 
 Peter's hair, and to put mine in," explained Miss 
 Seraphina, indignantly. "I could not part with 
 dear Great-Uncle Peter's latest gift to me, or shift 
 his lock of hair!" 
 
 "I wonder just how long Aunt Seraphina 's hair 
 would have remained in it?" observed Dick, pen- 
 sively. 
 
 ' ' The women seemed to tell us very little about 
 themselves,'' commented Cecil. "Their talk con- 
 sisted almost entirely of questions." 
 
 "That's a common failing amongst women 
 everywhere," commented Dick, sententiouslj'. 
 "Curiosity, thy name is Woman!" 
 
 "i^d their actions were bej'ond the telling!"
 
 106 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 said ]\[iss Seraphina, with asperity, and uplifted 
 hands. 
 
 "To err is very human!" interpolated Dick. 
 
 "But I think I have succeeded in teaching that 
 fat old woman that perfect honesty is the best 
 policy ! " 
 
 "Ah! Honesty's not always the best policy," 
 said Dick. "When I was going home from school 
 with cousin Charles, I once picked up a sovereign in 
 the train. Charles was envious of mj^ luck, and 
 made me give it to the guard, to find the proper 
 owner. The fellow grinned ecstatically as he put it 
 in his pocket. I firmly believe he identified him- 
 self as the owner of that stray sovereign! My 
 father was so pleased with me for my integrity that 
 he gave me half-a-crown. The reward seemed to 
 me somehow to fall short of twenty shillings. And, 
 moreover, Charles unfairly claimed half of it because 
 he'd made me honest! He reminded me that half 
 a loaf was better than no bread. I thought that 
 adding insult to injury. Ah!" said Dick, with pen- 
 sive retrospection, "if I'd been a little older and a 
 little wiser, Charles 'd never have got his share of 
 that half-crown from me — nor the guard that 
 sovereign. And, in the future, I'll undertake to 
 identify any stray sovereign that comes my way,'^ 
 he added firmly.
 
 MISAGE OF THE DESERT. 107 
 
 Cecil, especially, now picked up Araljic verj' 
 quickly and began to talk it easily, to Meshow's 
 great delight. He found her an apt pupil, and he 
 paid the Englishwomen every service in his power, 
 particularly Cecil. He insisted on being their at- 
 tendant in walks and rides. He was sometimes ac- 
 companied by his foster-brother, Ghudda, when they 
 Vv'ent to any distance. 
 
 Whilst they were at his douar Ahmed Bey told 
 them of another sheikh, Suleyman ibn Mirshid, whose 
 daughter, Fetneh, was betrothed to Mahmoud Bey. 
 He proposed that they should visit Suleyman, when 
 they went to fetch the bride, and accompany the 
 bridal party back to join in the coming festivities, 
 for the marriage was to take place soon. They 
 assented gladly. A few days later their escort was 
 waiting with their camels and dromedaries at a 
 little distance from the village. They found them 
 under some thorn trees, waiting to guide them to 
 Suleyman 's douar. 
 
 As they approached his village, from a distance 
 they could see an Arab mount his horse and ride to- 
 wards them. Springing from his steed's back to the 
 ground, he greeted them with every mark of pleasure 
 and esteem. He was Sulej'man, the owner of the 
 douar before them. 
 
 Their tent was pitched, their baggage unloaded;
 
 108 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ^nd they were offered the refreshment of fine dates 
 and rich, fresh milk, which they had already found 
 was a favourite repast amongst the habitues of the 
 -desert.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was at Suleyman ibn Mirsliid's douar that 
 Middleton, for the first time, saw Fetneh. Fetneh 
 was the only daughter of the old sheikh, and the 
 pride of Sulej'man's heart. He allowed her special 
 privileges, and a general amount of freedom from 
 restraint, not usually accorded to the Arab women. 
 
 On their first arrival in his house, the English 
 party saw a little group of Arab women seated there 
 apart, and carefully veiled. By-and-bye the sheikh 
 said something in Arabic to a black slave, who, with 
 the women, hurriedlv withdrew. Then Sulevman 
 turned to Mr. Cleveland: 
 
 ''My daughter, Fetneh, hath desired to see thy 
 women. Perchance thou wilt permit them now to 
 visit in the harem? Having sojourned at the 
 tents of Ahmed Bey, thou knowest that the light ol* 
 my eyes, my beloved, is betrothed to Mahmoud Bey, 
 his cousin? We go presently upon a journey, for 
 the wedding festival will soon be held at the douar 
 of Ahmed Bey." 
 
 In the harem the two Frankish ladies were re- 
 ceived by Fetneh with gracious smiles and Oriental
 
 110 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 courtes}'. Here unveiled women came and went, 
 gliding silently about in their embroidered slippers, 
 and regarding the strangers with childlike, vivid 
 curiosity. After a brief visit here, they returned 
 again to their OAvn tent, to rest after their journey. 
 
 Later, Middleton set forth alone to wander about 
 the douar. Here there were date palm-trees, straight 
 and tall, and plumy, with heavy clusters of golden 
 or purple fruit. Far away amongst the palm-groves 
 that he was approaching, he could hear the distant 
 dreamy sound of a flute, plaj'ed softly, floating on 
 the mellow, drowsy air. As he came near, a few 
 birds were twittering about, and a few butterflies 
 were hovering languidly in the warm, golden sun- 
 shine. The flute ceased for an interval ; then again 
 he heard it, nearer, played more ardently; and he 
 saw a slender youth approaching slowly, the flute 
 raised to his lips. Beneath the trees the sand was 
 V7arm, and golden in the sunshine, where his bare 
 feet touched it. He recognised the youth as Yusuf, 
 one of the many sons of Suleyman ibn Mirshid, and 
 Fetneh's youngest brother. His face had already in- 
 terested and charmed Middleton. It was aristocratic, 
 like Meshow's, but more like the face of a happy 
 dreamer. His great lustrous eyes were magnificent; 
 tender, indolent, enchanted. 
 
 He plaj^ed a few notes of ravishingly sweet me-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. Ill 
 
 lody, ineffably wild and bird-like; then very clear 
 and soft. Pausing for a moment, he smiled sweetly 
 and seriously upon the stranger, as only Arabs can 
 smile; then raised the flute to his lips again, and 
 went his way, still playing his songs of languor, heat, 
 and love, and solitude. 
 
 Further on Avas a picturesque, small group of 
 palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked brown 
 earth. Beyond the wall of this palm-garden was a 
 well. Standing here in thoughtful solitude, beneath 
 the palms, Middleton saw presentlj^ approaching 
 him, a woman in white haik, flowing loosely over her 
 Arab dress, with a silver girdle clasping her slender 
 waist. 
 
 She allovred her white haik to fall suddenly, 
 disclosing to the astonished Middleton her rare, warm 
 Eastern charms. A beautiful girl of sixteen, with a 
 tall and shapely form, a resolute countenance, firm, 
 richly-cut mouth, and splendid dark eyes. 
 
 It struck Middleton as a cold, handsome, scorn- 
 ful face, suggesting such conflicts between external 
 and internal life that it aroused his keenest interest 
 and pit}'. She was evidently one to whom the harem 
 existence would become in time intolerable. 
 
 The faint shadow of a smile flickered over her 
 features as she read the involuntary admiration in 
 his face. The passive weariness of her face changed
 
 112 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ill an instant into voluptuous softness as she raised 
 her lustrous, languid eyes to IMiddleton. Then still 
 lower drooped her eyelids. She filled her water-jar, 
 and lifted it with a wide, easy sweep of her beauti- 
 ful bare arm to her shoulder ; and steadying it with 
 the fingers of one shapeh^ hand, she smiled at Mid- 
 dleton. The smile was scarcely on her lips, but in 
 her dark and languid eyes. She lifted her haik 
 again across her mouth, and turned to leave the well. 
 As she went she sang softly to herself some quaint 
 and never-ending love-song of the East. 
 
 ''This, I think, is Fetneh," reflected Middleton. 
 "What struggles some of these beauties of the East 
 must undergo before they settle down into the weari- 
 some routine of harem life!" 
 
 "There seem to be a good many negroes amongst 
 the Arabs here, noAv that we have penetrated so far 
 into the great Sahara," said Cecil, later on, as the 
 English party sat apart in their own tent. 
 
 "The desert Arabs appear darker and more 
 negro-looking than those in Morocco or Algeria," 
 said Mr. Cleveland. 
 
 "That is in cases where the Arab blood is not 
 so pure," said Middleton. 
 
 "They appear to have black slaves in great 
 abundance here."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. li:^ 
 
 "Yes. And the slaves are always kindly 
 treated." 
 
 "Here they are trusted and Avell cared for. Much 
 more so than in cities. But I believe they often dom- 
 ineer in their masters' families as they grow old." 
 
 "Well, in the present instance," Cecil said, "the 
 woman Nasli seems devoted to her young mistress. 
 She quite worships this desert beauty, Fetneh." 
 
 "That may well enough be true," said Middle- 
 ton; "as the servant of servants to sheikhs in the 
 desert, the slave is devoted and obedient." 
 
 A little later jMiddleton was wandering alone 
 along the narrow, branching paths in the palm-grove, 
 his ears charmed again by hearing in the distance 
 the elusive, subtle, dreamily-played melody of the 
 flute ; when a single white garment glided into viev/ 
 amongst the palms, and Nasli, the black slave, ap- 
 peared before him. 
 
 Her neck and arms were hung with chains and 
 bangles, set with squares of red coral, and flawed 
 coloured stones. Barbaric silver ornaments were 
 fastened in her hair. 
 
 Stooping before him, Nasli saluted Middleton^ 
 raised and kissed the hem of his garment, and de- 
 livered to him a brief message from her mistress, 
 Fetneh.
 
 114 IMIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "My mistress would speak with thee privily be- 
 neath the palm-trees in these groves." 
 
 "I will await her coming," answered Middletou, 
 with some surprise. 
 
 Thereupon Nasli glided silently away, and pre- 
 sently returned to him, followed by a figure in white 
 robe and haik. 
 
 Fetneh came nearer to Middleton amongst the 
 palms, and Nasli, withdrawing a little way, prepared 
 to keep careful watch close by. 
 
 Sunshine flickered everywhere around them, 
 weaving beautiful patterns in the shadows of the 
 palms, Avhere the golden light i>assed between divided 
 leafage. As far as eyes could see, the feathery, 
 tufted foliage swayed gently in the light breeze. 
 
 As Middleton stood wondering, Fetneh suddenly 
 unveiled herself before him. The eager expectation 
 ^nd suspense of her beautiful dark face changed in 
 an instant into a voluptuous softness as her large, 
 brown eyes fell on his countenance. 
 
 •'When mine eyes first fell upon thee ^n my 
 father's house, Frankish stranger, then did I 
 know I loved thee. And my heart v/ent forth to 
 meet thee when I met thee at the well. Greatly had 
 I desired to have that meeting with thee. And, being 
 privileged to freely come and go, I pres'.mtly made
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 115 
 
 opportunity to meet thee at the well and show my 
 beauty unto thee. Look upon me, stranger — ain I 
 not fairer than the women of thy country? Look 
 upon me ! ' ' 
 
 Holding back her veil with both her hands, Fet- 
 neh gazed upon him proudly. 
 
 "You are fair indeed," said Middleton. "But 
 your rich beauty, Fetneh, is not for me." 
 
 "Thou lovest the woman of the Franks," she re- 
 sponded slowly. "Nay, think not I have not seen 
 thy love for her — but she loves thee not ! And I am 
 fairer — yet thy heart turns not to me. But this may 
 come. Leave yonder cold-faced and cold-hearted 
 woman here behind thee in the desert — fly with Fet- 
 neh, who knows how to love ! ' ' 
 
 She had thrown herself, with Oriental abandon- 
 ment, on her knees before him, 
 
 "No. Fetneh — kneel not to me. What you ask 
 of me is impossible. I love another woman; one of 
 my own race and my own country," 
 
 "In the day of adversity wilt thou find Fetneh 
 faithful. But not that other cold, faint-hearted wo- 
 man ! " 
 
 "Fetneh, you should know my heart can know 
 no changing!" 
 
 "I would that the Frankish woman were dead,"
 
 116 ?^IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 she answered sullenly, "for then would 'st thou love 
 me!" 
 
 She spoke with all the abandonment of pent-up 
 passion, now set free — the wild passion of an Oriental 
 nature. Middleton, remaining silent from sheer pity, 
 she burst forth again : 
 
 "I fear, I hate this man I am compelled by des- 
 tiny to wed. Take me away from my weary desert 
 lot, and from one whom I now abhor — take me ^rom 
 the hopeless weariness of harem life into the happi- 
 ness and freedom I have heard of from the women 
 of thy country. Lo ! I, too, am sprung from Frankish 
 origin. Even Fetneh has a strain of Frankish blood 
 warm in her veins. Hearken, stranger ! The grand- 
 mother of Fetneh was a Frankish foundling who was 
 adopted by the ruling sheikh of this tribe. Nay!" 
 she added, proudly, with a haughty uplifting of her 
 head, "but on the Arab side my blood is also of the 
 best!" 
 
 Middleton again was silent. 
 
 All the mingled passion of that unrestrained, 
 wild Eastern nature now burst forth. 
 
 "Let us fly from this accursed country — thou 
 and I together. beloved, let us fly — let us leave 
 this Land of Kismet. Crafty and very subtle is 
 Mahmoud Bey. Fain would I fly Avith one I love 
 and worship, from the one I hate and fear. Take
 
 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 117 
 
 me away with thee to thine own country, therefore 
 — 0, light of my eyes, take me as thy slave and hand- 
 maid, if thou wilt." 
 
 Still kneeling, Fetneh would have laid her head 
 upon his feet; but Middleton repulsed her firmly, 
 though Avith great gentleness. 
 
 ''Arise, woman. Fetneh, this is madness," he 
 said, pityingly. "What you ask of me is quite im* 
 possible." 
 
 Fetneh seized Middleton 's reluctant hand, and 
 pressed it to her forehead, saying: — 
 
 "\Miither thou goest, there will Fetneh go. Even 
 as her heart is, henceforth is her home with thee !" 
 
 "Fetneh, I refuse to listen to you any longer!" 
 
 Middleton drew his hand away from her's. 
 
 The passive scorn of Fetneh 's face changed in 
 an instant into fierceness. Her chin went up; still 
 lower drooped her lids. She leaned forward then to 
 scan him with her handsome, insolent, bold eyes. 
 
 "Wilt thou not be master?" she exclaimed with 
 an indignant sneer. "Nay, then, foolish one, thou 
 shalt be slave — my slave, perchance, for though thou 
 scornest me, yet have I power thou knowest not of — 
 but thou shalt know hereafter." 
 
 "Fetneh, I scorn you not !" 
 
 The woman set aside his words with a proud 
 gesture.
 
 118 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Hearken to me, stranger! Fierceness with th<j 
 sun and heat beat ever on the Arabs in the desert — 
 thou, too, wilt one day learn to feel. Peradventure, 
 wilt thou think with vain regret of Fetneh. What 
 is written is written ! ' ' 
 
 Letting her veil fall again before her face, she 
 left him there abruptly, as the w^atchful Nasli made 
 her an urgent sign that they must go ; and they both 
 vanished quickly from his view in the intricate sha- 
 clows of the palm grove, leaving Middleton staring 
 after them with much perplexity. 
 
 These rapid transitions from nervous violence to 
 softness, and from tender smiles to crashing anger, 
 Avere most unusual and Eastern, m.ost bewildering, 
 thought Middleton. m.uch disturbed, as he, too, turn- 
 ed to go. 
 
 "The desert is surely the strangest place in all 
 the world," he thought, greatly troubled, "and wo- 
 man is the strangest complexity in life. When one 
 meets them both together — climax comes!"
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Fetneh sat in an apartment of her father's house, 
 perfumed with languorous, sweet odours of Araby. 
 She was alone with Mahmoud, her betrothed. His 
 eyes wore an expression of unAVonted gentleness as 
 they rested on her. 
 
 "Faris-es-Shebah! ]\Iarshallah ! Allah hath made 
 thee very beautiful — thou hast no fault." 
 
 Fetneh turned her magnificent liquid eyes upon 
 the Arab, cajoling Mahmoud in unwonted fashion, 
 
 "This Frank whom thou hast trusted as thine 
 honoured guest, Mahmoud Bey, he hath made love 
 to me," she told him presently. 
 
 Mahmoud 's ever smouldering jealousy of other 
 men, so easily excited, in an instant was on fire. He 
 had always resented Fetneh 's special freedom from 
 restraint amongst the otlu^r women. 
 
 "It was thy father's Avill to treat thee differ- 
 ently, O Fetneh, because of thy mother's strain of 
 Frankish blood. Else had'st thou been treated 
 even as the other women of the harem— as I vriil 
 treat thee when thou art my wife!"
 
 120 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "It was even this unwonted freedom; else had 
 thine ej'es beheld me not until we were betrothed ! ' ' 
 
 ''What said the stranger unto thee?" asked 
 Mahmoud. 
 
 "This accursed Frank hath made violent love 
 to me — thine own betrothed. He desired to steal 
 me from thee, and to take me to his home by 
 stealth, away from mine oAvn tents and desert 
 people-e-and from thee!" 
 
 "And thou — Avhat didst reply — what was 
 thine answer to the Frank?" he ask^d impatiently. 
 
 "I bade him mate with one of his own race and 
 faith, in his own land," she answered boldly. 
 
 "How shall I punish him — revenge thee best — • 
 myself and thou?" 
 
 "The Frank would fetch his price in the Su- 
 dan," the woman answered slowly; "or at Tim- 
 buctoo, sold there to the Sultan for a slave — for he 
 is strong, and verj^ handsome." 
 
 A gleam, a swift suspicious look, came suddenly 
 into the Arab's thoughtful face. 
 
 '''Send him," Fetneh said, relentlessly, perceiv- 
 ing this, "to the slave-market of Morocco, or Tim- 
 buctoo, or the Great Sudan." 
 
 "Nay, why should I not kill him?" he asked 
 hotl}'.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 121 
 
 His countenance was extraordinary with its 
 dogged, passionate expression. 
 
 Fetneh involuntarily shrank back before the 
 smouldering passion that burnt in the Arab's eyes, 
 mingling with an admiration for her that was almost 
 ferocious in its intensity. 
 
 Two flames seemed to Fetneh to be burning in 
 her heart — a fierce flame of joy and vengeance, and 
 as fierce a flame of yearning pity and of self-con- 
 tempt. At the sudden savageness of Mahmoud's 
 tone did Fetneh tremble, as she shrank away from 
 him; and she repented for a moment, when it was 
 too late, her unscrupulous betrayal of Middleton. 
 
 But only for a moment — then she shook off her 
 remorse and pain. 
 
 "Nay, kill him not, jiahmoud Bey, for he 
 would fetch his price in the Sudan — or he would 
 bring thee princely ransom." 
 
 The suspicious look had deepened in his face. 
 His expression became in a moment sinister. Mah- 
 moud was almost as jealous as he was vain. He 
 fixed his eyes on Fetneh, and his face was grave 
 Vv^ith thought. 
 
 "What is this talk of ransom! "What is his 
 fate to thee? my beloved. Why carest thou? 
 
 "Nay, I care not. Thou shalt gain much gold
 
 122 ]MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 i.C his friends pay the ransom. Doubtless they 
 would give good value for him. And if they ran- 
 som him, then will he return to his own land and 
 wed this woman of the Franks, and thereafter he 
 will think no more of me." 
 
 "I go to the Bedouins," Mahmoud Bey said 
 quickly — "I will arrange amongst them for the 
 capture of the Frank." 
 
 So saying, he left Fetneh hurriedly. 
 
 A few days later the wedding journe}'' was 
 taken, Fetneh riding proudly her nuptial dromedary. 
 She rode in a litter, canopied by embroidered, tas- 
 selled, and tinselled silk. On the canopy was an 
 appropriate text from the Koran, embroidered in 
 gold. Xasli rode with the bride, and her attendants 
 and protectors, all riding much-caparisoned camels, 
 one carrying the bride's trousseau and her dower, 
 preceded and followed her, accompanied by the 
 Frankish company. On the long journey, musicians 
 rode after the bride, incessantly beating drums. 
 Thus they all arrived at the douar of Ahmed Bey, 
 where they were welcomed very heartily. 
 
 The sound of drums and fifes, and of rejoicings 
 were kept up late at night. Young and old ran 
 out to see the processions; the Arab maidens in their 
 best attire. To see the bridegroom and his friends, 
 the veiled bride, the musicians, and the crowd.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 123 
 
 And the flashing lights gave animation to the scene. 
 On the day following their arrival at the douar, 
 Nasli approached her mistress, who sat alone, and 
 crouching down beside her on the carpet, gazed at 
 her wistfullj'. 
 
 "Weary are my days, Nasli," said Fetneh, 
 after a long, sullen silence, turning to the slave. 
 "Fain would I leave harem life behind me, and fly 
 far aAvay to other lands. Here we are held cap- 
 tives " 
 
 She broke off, and paused here, brooding with 
 a downcast face. Then she resumed : — 
 
 "And ever, talk of marriage for our women — 
 even they who have no childhood granted them," 
 said Fetneh, in a dull, monotonous despair. "The 
 never-ending song, the never-ending music. The 
 lute ever harsh and mocking to mine ears!" 
 
 "Nay. it is very sweet and timeful, when play- 
 ed skilfully!" 
 
 "My misery makes it seem harsh to me," said 
 Fetneh. "The garabooka never ceases, and the 
 pipes shrill all night long — the marriage music is 
 ever on the roads — O Nasli, I am weary — very 
 weary-hearted— and mine heart is sick to death!" 
 
 Fetneh raised her beautiful arms wearily above 
 her head, her heavy silver bangles falling with musi- 
 cal clashing.
 
 124 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "The sheikh Siileyman, my father, hath already 
 delayed 1113^ marriage as long as possible, at my 
 request." 
 
 "Perchance thon wilt be happier with Mah- 
 moud than thou thinkest now." 
 
 "Verily the Frankish women must be very 
 happy!" 
 
 "Allah send thee happiness," replied the slave. 
 
 "Happy is the Frankish woman — happy is she! 
 And I, look you ? I am most unhappy ! Ai ! Ai ! " 
 
 "Let not my lord hear thee," said the quick- 
 eared Nasli, hastily. "Mahmoud Bey is coming even 
 now — and he hath gifts for thee!" 
 
 "I care not!" said Fetneh, sullenlv. 
 
 "Now is he coming to thee — peace!" 
 
 And Mahmoud entered. 
 
 "I greet thee, beloved, O light of my eyes! 
 Soon will the marriage music sound for thee and 
 me. O, happy day ! Even now are they preparing 
 for the festival. Behold!" 
 
 His hands were filled with gifts of bridal finery 
 — rich golden earrings, strings of priceless pearls, 
 and turquoises and costly diamonds strung on gold- 
 en chains. Mahmoud, at one time, had joined in 
 raids and plunder with the wild Bedouins of the 
 desert. Lastly, he presented Fetneh with a strong
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 125 
 
 silver chain, of exquisite workmanship, set with 
 flawed emeralds. 
 
 "Behold my wedding gift to thee! This shall 
 be thy zone, thy girdle, and thou shalt wear it at 
 thy marriage festival." 
 
 Fetneh looked upon the chain, and then at Mah- 
 moud with a mysterious and sudden horror. 
 
 "Why givest me this?" 
 
 "That shalt thou know hereafter! It is a sym- 
 bol, meantime, and it hath for thee a hidden mean- 
 ing! Thou shalt know its use hereafter." 
 
 Left alone again with Nasli, Fetneh sat there 
 pondering in silent apathy, sunk in despair. The 
 slave sat silent at her feet, caressing them. 
 
 On the day of the festival came Nasli to her 
 mistress hastily. 
 
 "Already' the pipers are playing, and many 
 are assembled to see the women dance. Thy bro- 
 ther Yusuf playeth love-songs for thee on his flute." 
 
 "While the pipes shrilled, the English partj'' 
 came upon the scene, to watch the pretty children, 
 with their perfect little hands, dancing with their 
 free and blithesome grace. Then the sound of a 
 flute reached their ears. 
 
 "I know that air," said Middleton; "that 
 sparkling shower of notes. I have heard it often 
 in the palm grove."
 
 126 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 The sound of the flute came to Fetneh cease- 
 lessly; by turns wild and romantic, joyous, sad, 
 -uncivilised. Yusuf could sweetly sing the love- 
 songs of the East — the songs of beauty, heat, and 
 languor. 
 
 "It is my brother's flute," she said; "only 
 Yusuf can play the flute like that!" 
 
 She could not endure the endless song it made, 
 for there was a wild pathos in the music as it 
 reached her ears, which sank deep in her heart. She 
 was glad when the sounds of the flute sank softly 
 into silence. 
 
 Then the faint cry of the African hautboy rose 
 up above the tom-toms. The festival was even now 
 Ijeginning, and the procession soon took place. 
 
 At the marriage festival lambs, stuffed with 
 •cucumbers and symbolic cakes, were served to rich 
 and poor, who were bidden to the feast, and danc- 
 ing girls and musicians performed while the guests 
 feasted. 
 
 The women and girls wore huge gold earrings, 
 bracelets, and anklets; and triangular silver skewers 
 fastened the draperies across the breast ; their nar- 
 row girdles were worked with gold thread, and 
 hung with lumps of coral. 
 
 Mahmoud's wedding dress was a small, neat tur- 
 ban, with a white ground, on which was a neat
 
 :?*riRAGE OP THE DESERT. 127 
 
 sprig pattern worked in gold; cotton breeches, and 
 an undercoat, over which was thrown a long loose 
 cloak, with a white ground, on which was an ele- 
 gant flower pattern; and on his feet were Arab 
 slippers of scarlet goatskin. 
 
 To the bride, in her rich dress, the days of the 
 festival seemed very long. 
 
 On the appointed day ]\Iahmoud came to Fet- 
 neh, where she sat awaiting him. 
 
 "Lo! thj' bridegroom comes," said Nasli; "even 
 now approacheth Mahmoud Bey." 
 
 "We are not abiding here! Art ready, 
 Petneh, for our journey in the desert? I am come 
 to take my bride to mine own douar!" 
 
 The woman gave her new-made husband a faint 
 sign of haughtiest assent. 
 
 "Since it must be so, I await thy will. What 
 must be, must be ! " 
 
 Then Mahmoud took her hand in his to lead 
 her forth. 
 
 The distant sound of Yusuf 's flute was in her 
 €ars, as the youth showered forth his liquid notes. 
 The distant love-song of the flute seemed like a 
 touch of enchantment in the grove. 
 
 Still the flute of Yusuf showered soft, clear 
 music on the air from amongst the nearer palms.
 
 128 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Now the flute was close to them, and the in- 
 tense, unending song of love for ever in her ears. 
 
 When Suleyman approached the wedded pair, 
 came Yusuf with him. He was still carrying hi.s 
 flute, held lightly in his slender fingers. The gentle 
 Arab youth looked upon his sister with a tender 
 expression in his poetic face. He spoke some words 
 aside to Mahmoud, in low and eager tones, pointing 
 to his sister as he did so. Mahmoud heard him with 
 averted and impassive face, without reply. 
 
 Suleyman ibn Mirshid took a tender farewell of 
 his daughter, and her brother Yusuf stood beside 
 her wistfully, his whole soul in his deep, expressive 
 eyes. The Arabs and the English party looked on 
 with keen interest. IMahmoud mounted his horse, 
 and as Fetneh placed her foot upon his foot, lie 
 raised her to the saddle in front of him. The people 
 bade him farewell laughingly, with manj' Salaams; 
 wishing them a happy ride to their own douar. 
 
 The garabooka was beaten loudly still, the shrill 
 sound of the pipe followed them monotonously as 
 they turned away, and the sound of the festival still 
 rang within their ears. 
 
 Before them rode the attendants for a little 
 while, chanting love songs in the sun. The sound 
 of those songs seemed to the unhappy woman to 
 pierce her heart. It seemed like the sound of the
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 12-y 
 
 great desert singing to her of its wild and savage 
 love — not the soft, refined, more human love for 
 which she longed and hungered. 
 
 The gay cries from the festival were dying 
 awa}'. JMahmoud's horse kept time with the swing- 
 irg step of the camels, whose riders kept up with 
 him for a short time — till at last they turned back 
 to the douar, and the bridal music grew fitful and 
 faint, and then died away in the distance. 
 
 When all the voices of the village fainted away 
 the unliappy bride still strained her ears to catch 
 their fading echoes. 
 
 Thej^ rode out in the desert through the blazing 
 sunlight, beyond the last green belt of verdure, and 
 beyond the last line of palms. 
 Involuntarily Fetneh sighed. 
 "Art weary, Fetneh?" Mahmoud asked. 
 ' * Seems the way long to thee, alone with me ? Yet 
 must we journey on!" 
 
 A subtle mocking sound was mJngled with the 
 genuine tenderness of his tones. 
 
 "It is well, Mahmoud Bey," she answered, 
 shortly. "I care not. Then onward!" 
 
 They had now left the douar well behind them, 
 and they were alone upon the v/aste. The Arab 
 seized the cold, reluctant woman closel}', fiercely, iu 
 his arms, covering all her face with hot, fierce
 
 130 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 kisses. Then he touched his steed with his heel, and 
 the eagerly-responsive horse sprang forward, and 
 began to gallop madly off. 
 
 They had ridden long on the far desert, resting 
 occasionally by the way, when there appeared at 
 the verge of it a dull green line, betokening the 
 distant palms of an oasis. They began to ride more 
 slowly toward it on the sandy waste, amongst the 
 little round humps where clusters of bushes grew. 
 
 The dark green line shovv-ed clearer through the 
 sunshine across the gleaming fiats, broke into fea- 
 thery tufts, and broadened into a still far-off dim- 
 ness of distant palms. 
 
 The horse now went so swiftly that Fetneh in- 
 voluntarily flung up her arms, and clung about her 
 husband's neck in sudden, deadly fear. Her flut- 
 tering breath was on her husband's cheek. It 
 thrilled the Arab to the heart. He drew her nearer 
 to him, and sought her full, red lips with his again, 
 with a fierce eagerness and cruel triumph, and a 
 passionate abandonment that he had kept in stern 
 restraint before. 
 
 Though he had felt suspicious lately, Mahmoud 
 Bey strove to deceive himself into believing he was 
 the sole possessor now of Fetneh 's heart. His 
 pulses bounded madly at the thought. His blood
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 131 
 
 was like liquid fire as it coursed through his veins. 
 He felt his whole heart throb exultantly. This, 
 indeed, was the right way to woo and win a waman's 
 reluctant heart. Fetneli was alone with him in the 
 great, lonely desert — she was his wife — and she 
 would love him yet as he would be loved. Her 
 wavering heart had turned to him at last — it would, 
 it must! — and give him beat for beat. 
 
 He bent his head towards her face again, as 
 her head lay on his breast. But Fetneh had divined 
 instinctively her husband's thought. Coldly she 
 withdrew from his neck her supple, clinging arms. 
 
 As she released her hold and shrank awaj^ from 
 him, the Arab laughed. 
 
 "Thou art mine, Fetneh — mine own — none 
 can take thee from me whither I am going ! ' ' 
 
 His voice had lost its conciliatory and persuasive 
 tone, and a dull anger burnt upon his face. 
 
 Mahmoud was urging forvrard his fleet horse. 
 The ceaseless thud of its hoofs beat the hard sand as 
 ic flew along. In the ears of Fetneh the sound 
 pulsed with vague foreboding. Her haik was blown 
 aside, and then her floating veil; her loose, dark 
 hair was often blown on Mahmoud 's face, and across 
 his lips. He went faster— faster still— went fast 
 that she might cling to him in fear, if not in love.
 
 132 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 But the woman read his thought, and she released 
 her slightest hold with coldness, as she shrank as 
 far as possible away from his restraining touch. 
 
 The Arab laughed. 
 
 "Be it so ! " he muttered, and drew her violently 
 to his breast, and held her closely to him, and so 
 galloped madly on his course. 
 
 "Where art thou taking me?" she cried, stung 
 into speech. 
 
 "What matters that to thee, beloved? Dost 
 think the way so far, alone with me? It is but a 
 little distance noAv. And soon the sun will set." 
 
 Here and there, in the depressions of the sterile 
 ground, there had been a thin scurf of green, which 
 meant that v/ater was not far from the surface. 
 Then, quite suddenly, the waj' dipped down into a 
 bowl-shaped hollow, with an exquisite, most dainty 
 group of palm-trees, and a lovely green sward at the 
 bottom of it; for they had reached an oasis near a 
 well. The last of the sun gleamed upon that bril- 
 liant patch of clear and restful colour, with the bare 
 desert all around it. And the promise of water and 
 shade would have been grateful to the wearied wo- 
 man, but for her state of deep anxiety and fear. 
 
 And near at hand — though they were far in the 
 heart of the desert — surrounded by high walls, half
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 133 
 
 buried by drifting sand, the doors buried in the sand, 
 stood an old, ruined temple. The crumbling re- 
 mains of an ancient building, so old that no date 
 could be assigned to it. Designed in some far-oSi time, 
 perhaps, for some great Emir in his journey ings ; or 
 perhaps some solitary fanatic, to worship Allah in 
 the lonely desert, far from haunts of men. 
 
 jMahmoud paused, at last, from his long, mad 
 ride, and gently walked his steed. 
 
 Away from them stretched the unrelieved 
 desert, to die into soft violet hue in extreme dis- 
 tance. In the foreground the rich golden sand was 
 dazzling in the late sunshine. But Fetneh's face 
 was turned towards the shimmering violet haze in 
 mute despair. 
 
 "Where hast thou brought me, Mahmoud?" 
 she asked at last, "Whither goest thou?" 
 
 "What matters it, so thou art with thy hus- 
 band?" he responded, with a hard, fierce laugh. 
 "We have come to our own, happy, desert home, 
 where none shall take thee from me. and I shall 
 have tliee in mine own safe keeping evermore I 
 Come, my wife!" 
 
 He rode up to the ruined temple as he spoke, 
 moving slowly and deliberately over the warm sand. 
 
 "Where art thou taking me?" she cried again.
 
 134 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Not there — oh, not there- 
 
 For answer he dismounted from his mare, and 
 took her in his arms, to lift her down. The horse 
 stood quietly by, with accustomed docility. 
 
 Mahmoud had hard work to scrape away the 
 piled-up sand from the wall of the mosque. 
 
 "The sand has shifted since last I was here," 
 he said. 
 
 Fetneh stood by quietly, and watched his ac- 
 tions listlessly. She knew it was vain to attempt 
 escape, and her face was filled with an impassive, 
 cold despair. "With unseeing eyes she watched the 
 lizards slipping in and out of the small crevices and 
 holes in the old, crumbling walls. The sun began 
 to set, and IMahmoud ceased awhile, to bow his head 
 in prayer. Then he worked on again in the golden 
 mists of evening. 
 
 By this time he had made an opening through 
 which a man might pass, and then he stopped to rest. 
 It was growing dark, and the cool night wind had 
 come upon the desert. In a little while he said : — 
 
 "Look at the light yonder in the sky, Fetneh, 
 the light that comes just after nightfall has set in. 
 It comes vainly, even as hope came vainly to me that 
 T had won thy love." 
 
 He uttered the last words in tones of fierce re-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 135 
 
 gret, and sat in brooding silence till the' moon had 
 risen. Then he rose, and took her hand. 
 
 ''Come thoii with me!" he said. 
 
 And presently he slid, with Fetneh in his arms, 
 through the opening he had made, and, falling on 
 soft sand within, recovered his feet. It was seldom 
 that the drifted sand lay thickly enough to allow a 
 climb over the high wall; to allow anyone to enter 
 the court. The picturesque windows were partly 
 smothered, the doors were entirely buried in sand. 
 It was dark within, and Mahmoud produced and 
 lighted a small lamp he had with him, and entered 
 the mosque with Fetneh. holding up the lamp. 
 
 There were signs that he had been here re- 
 cently. 
 
 *'Lo! I have prepared for thee, my bride," he 
 said. 
 
 High above them rose the domed roof of the 
 temple, richly painted in red and gold; round the 
 upper portion of the walls ran arabesque in white 
 plaster, bearing in graceful design verses from the 
 Koran ; the Avails were of plain, slightly-tinted plas- 
 ter, and the flooring of rich tiles. At the further 
 side vras an alcove, the former seat, perhaps, of some 
 great Emir. And an old ^loorish lamp, fitted with 
 small panes of dull jewelled glass hung there.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Mahmoud set down the lamp he carried in his 
 hand, and lighted the old Moorish lamp that hung in 
 the alcove ; and it gleamed softly, mj'stically, over 
 the strange scene. He turned suddenly to Fetneh. 
 
 "Here art thou safe with me!" he said, and 
 laughed — a strange, low laugh of mingled pain, con- 
 tempt; of triumph, failure, power, and despair. 
 
 The woman gazed upon him sullenly, and her 
 red lips quivered. Her heart sank deep within her 
 hreast. She had thrown back her veil, but now she 
 drew it close about her. Mahmoud took her in his 
 arms again, and kissed her passionately. Fetneh 
 shuddered at his touch. She shrank before the fire 
 that smouldered in his eyes. He released her with 
 a bitter sense of fierce impotency. 
 
 "Wilt thou kill me here, Mahmoud?" 
 
 "Nay, beloved, but I intend to tame thee — when 
 thou shalt love me as a true wife loves her husband 
 1 v/ill set thee free. I have ever blamed thy father's 
 foolishness in allowing thee an unusual amount of 
 freedom amongst the other women, because of thy
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 137 
 
 alien birth. But here I have thee in mine own safe 
 keeping. Lest other men's eyes stray to thee, at- 
 tracted by thy beaut3^ For think not I hold thee 
 altogether blameless, though I have accused thee 
 not!" 
 
 A dangerous look woke in his face, of fiercest 
 jealousy. After a brief, grim silence he resumed: — 
 
 "Later, in mine arms, thou wilt forget the hours 
 that thou hast spent in weeping — the hours that thou 
 hast waited solitary in the darkness here. For in 
 this lonely and sand-covered temple it is dark in day- 
 time as at night. And when thy wild and wilful 
 heart is tamed to me, and thou hast learnt the 
 lesson I will teach — thou wilt forget then, in tho 
 morning of thy new-born love for me, that these 
 heavy hours of darkness and of weariness had ever 
 been!" 
 
 The woman gave a great cry of exceeding bit- 
 terness behind her veil, and raised it suddenly. 
 
 "The passing caravans will water at this well, 
 and I will cry to them!" 
 
 "Nay, this ancient mosque and oasis are regard- 
 ed by the Arabs with great fear and dread. Re- 
 luctantly they halt for water at this well, and they 
 will never linger here when once they have filled 
 their empty water-skins. There is a wild, strange
 
 138 i\IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 tale attached to the ruins here. Only I -vTOiild ven- 
 ture here, Fetneh, and thou — "with me!" 
 
 She continued silent, standing still before him 
 •with her head bent down. 
 
 ' ' XoAv will this silent Avoman speak, and tell me 
 what is in her heart?" 
 
 Mahmoud gazed wistfully at Fetneh, who onco 
 more had drawn her veil aside that she might see 
 him better. The lamplight fell upon her face, and 
 he who looked for love, perceived that her dark eyes 
 were full of fear. This roused his bitter anger and 
 resentment. 
 
 "Thou wilt not torture — wilt not kill me here?" 
 
 "This talk is foolishness. Nay — not kill, nor 
 even hurt thee — thou deservest neither death, nor 
 torture — thy sin hath not been so great. But thou 
 wert m}' betrothed — yet thereafter didst betray my 
 love. I will tame thy spirit — will subject thy will 
 to mine — and Avhen once thou lovest me even as n 
 meek, obedient wife should love and willingly obey 
 her husband, thou art free. But thy wild, free spirit 
 must first be held in due subjection to mine own. 
 First must thou own me master, and thy rightful 
 lord. Torture? Nay, I will not mar thy brightness 
 and thy beauty — for that at least is mine. I desire 
 not to pain thy body, nor yet disfigure thee. Thou
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 139 
 
 shalt be beautiful, and still mine own, even in death, 
 itself— if death it be!" 
 
 The woman looked sideways at him, beneath her 
 narrowed, downcast lids, and shuddered. Why 
 this portentous calm in one who had been hitherta 
 so fierce and passionate. 
 
 ''Fetneh, I have sworn to tame thy spirit, and 
 to make of thee a wife who is obedient and meek." 
 
 The Avoman's desert blood was up. In that mo- 
 ment she was ready to die. Her bosom heaved. 
 She pressed her hands resolutely against her heav- 
 ing bosom, to still the rising storm within. The 
 gleam of flame-lit steel was in her eyes. They 
 gleamed like those of a roused lioness at bay. Her 
 face suggested a strange force; the way she held 
 herself, consuming passion. 
 
 "I will never be thy wife, except in name!" 
 "Surely this is but idle talk, Fetneh!" 
 "Verily, all that I have told thee is the truth." 
 
 An expression of savage ferocity appeared in 
 Mahmoud's face. 
 
 "Softly, thou shameless one! What of the 
 Frank?" 
 
 "Will it content thee that I never see him 
 more?"
 
 140 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "That is without avail," said Mahmoud Bey. 
 "Here, in this lonely, desert mosque, will I leave 
 thee to thy fate, if thou reject the cup of mercy 
 offered thee. With none to find thee, and none to 
 hear, save only the idle desert wind that bloweth 
 where it listeth, and the wild things of the desert." 
 He smiled cruelly, and added: — 
 "From one douar to another, throughout the 
 whole of the Sudan, amongst the nomads, will they 
 soon seek in vain the Frank." 
 
 A fierce excitement shone in Fetneh's lustrous 
 eyes, and her hands were trembling. 
 
 "I hate thee, Mahmoud — hate thee — with a hate 
 ^s strong as death — and I love the Frank ! I lied 
 to thee concerning him ; and I betrayed him to thee 
 for my vengeance, that he had repulsed me when 
 I spoke to him of love. And to make thee suffer 
 ■even as I suffer, I novv^ speak truth." 
 
 Mahmoud 's face grew hard and stern. 
 "Those who remain silent cannot speak folly. 
 Cease, foolish one!" 
 
 "Yet do I love the Frank!" 
 ''Strange are the ways of Allah! Is this thy 
 strain of alien blood? Thou lovest one not of thy 
 race — one who loves thee not — when such as I love 
 thee!"
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 141 
 
 He added, sternly: — 
 
 ''Thou desirest death, then?" 
 
 Fetneh bowed her head upon her breast. Her 
 Arab fatalism was awakened. 
 
 "Am I a child, that I should fear death? Far 
 rather death for me, than thy embrace ! Kismet ! 
 It is written ! ' ' 
 
 "jMalesch! Kismet? Thy Kismet will be as thy 
 lord's pleasure is!" 
 
 Mahmoud Bey stood looking at her. Fetneh 
 gazed back at him as though turned into stone. She 
 stood in her white robes, dressed for her marriage 
 festival, covered with the rich gems and ornaments 
 with which he had loaded her. Mahmoud Bey was 
 rich with plundering the caravans of old, and had 
 been generous with his gifts to his betrothed; and 
 Fetneh 's neck was hung with rich strings of 
 costly pearls and turquoises, and elaborately-worked 
 gold chains, strung with fine emeralds. 
 
 "Nay," said the Arab, softly, and his eyes wore 
 rather a gentle expression as he looked on her, "My 
 life flows out to thee. I will not mar thy beauty — 
 for that, at least, is mine — I mean not that." 
 
 Carried away by some deep feeling, suddenly he 
 bent his head before her, lifted her hand to his 
 forehead, and then touched it with his lips— an un- 
 wonted action of the Arabs towards their women.
 
 142 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "After storm, calm; after war, peace; after 
 <leath, hell — or paradise!" 
 
 "Thou wilt be merciful — thou hast forgiven 
 me?" she asked, in sudden hope. 
 
 "Not yet, O woman," responded Mahmoud Bey. 
 ^'He who is merciful forgives — but I forgive not yet. 
 The time is not come!" 
 
 "I ask not forgiveness," answered Fetneh, 
 proudly. 
 
 "Nor do I offer it — a time will surely come when 
 thou wilt beg me for it, even on thy knees — then I 
 will not withhold it from thee; l)ut then I shall 
 command thee to make choice between life-long cap- 
 tivity, and my embrace." 
 
 "Far rather death for me than thy embrace!" 
 
 "Dost thou not fear to die?" asked Mahmoud, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "Why should I fear to die?" said Fetneh, calm- 
 ly. "All must pass through that door. It matters 
 not whether it is to-day or to-morrow." 
 
 ]\Iahmoud Bey cast a strange look upon her. 
 Suddenly her proud, calm features quivered, and he 
 felt a momentar}^ painful triumph as he observed 
 the quivering of the beautiful proud lips, which 
 strove to stifle back a sob. She uttered some 
 strange, Arabic exclamation, tried to control herself,
 
 MIRAGE OE THE DESERT. 143 
 
 and failed miserably. She threw herself upon her 
 knees before the Arab, 
 
 ''I am young and very beautiful — I desire life, 
 not death — I desire to live — I do not wish to die — 
 have mercy — neither do thou kill, nor yet disfigure 
 me. I would have thee look no more upon me, when 
 my beauty is all gone!" 
 
 Mahmoud's threatening, triumphant smile 
 stirred Fetneh to a vague resentment. 
 
 "Verily the ways of Allah are very wonderful! 
 Now will the woman speak ! " 
 
 He caught her suddenly and swiftly in his 
 strong, resistless grasp ; clasped a slender wrist in 
 either hand, and, folding her arms relentlessly across 
 her heaving breast, he so restrained her, powerless 
 in his powerful grasp. 
 
 "What wouldst thou with me?" 
 
 In silence Mahmoud drew the massive silver 
 girdle from about her waist — his own strange mar- 
 riage-gift to her — and, placing her on the seat within 
 Ihe alcove, caught the chain firmly through some 
 fastening on the wall. Then, with a sudden move- 
 ment, as she lay helpless in his arms, he secured the 
 chain to the bracelets on her wrists, so fettering her 
 back against the richly-decorated wall. He tried 
 the silver links, and the chain held fast and strong.
 
 144 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Now, struggle as thou mayest, thou shalt not 
 free thj'self. This is the meaning of my marriage- 
 gift to thee; the gift thou didst wonder at. Thou 
 saidst: 'Why givest me this?' Now knowest thou. 
 The Prank has cast his eyes upon thy beauty. Here 
 will I keep thee, lest some other man's eyes stray to 
 thee, and peradventure he find favour in thy sight — 
 and perchance steal thee from me." 
 
 "Thou canst enchain my body, but my spirit 
 still is free!" 
 
 "I will enchain thy spirit. Choose now — I have' 
 said." 
 
 "I have chosen, Mahmoud. I will not open my 
 lips in speech to thee again upon this matter. ' ' 
 
 So Fetneh spoke, crouching impassively in the 
 embrace of her own silver girdle ; not vainly strain- 
 ing against her bonds, but quietly awaiting a swift 
 death. 
 
 But death came not to her. ]\Iahmoud's gaze 
 was fixed immovably upon her face, and his fine eyes 
 were glowing like two smouldering fires. Fetneh, 
 whose love he desired with all the fierce intensity 
 characteristic of the Arab, apparently could not be 
 overcome. 
 
 But with a cruel smile he said: — "I will not be- 
 provoked. I will still give thy stubborn spirit time-
 
 :mirage of the desert. 145 
 
 for repentance, that I may not lose my joy in thee, 
 and the delights of thy embrace. And the light of 
 thy countenance shall still rest on me, Fetneh. I 
 ask but to see thee da}' by day. If I see thee not, I 
 thirst and hunger — sav but thou to me: 'Mv lord's 
 word is as other men's oaths — I hear and I obev!' " 
 "Allah forbid! I obey thee not!" 
 "I thought vainly I was winning thee. False 
 dawn ! — False dawn ! False dawn cometh before 
 nightfall. And dayspring will not come!" 
 
 Then, for the first time, did Fetneh feel afraid. 
 As she looked at him, a sudden, cruel, overwhelming 
 terror came upon her. A swift death she did not 
 fear — but torture — mutilation ! J\Iahmoud, looking 
 on her, read her thought, and smiled grimly, saying 
 within himself : — 
 
 "I will yet break this woman's stubborn spirit !" 
 He extinguished the alcove lamp. Holding a 
 light high in his hand, he turned, and looked back at 
 her with steady gaze before he went. 
 
 A cliiKcult climb and crawl on all fours through 
 the sand-tunnel he had made, and he was once more 
 in the open air. half blinded by the warm sun of a 
 new, fresh morning, after the cool darkness of the old 
 mosque. For the brief dusk of the East was already- 
 spent.
 
 146 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 He covered the opening, and, leaving the ruined 
 mosque, he mounted his mare, and rode furiously 
 away into the desert. 
 
 But ]\Iahmoud's sufferings when away from 
 Fetneh were very great. After many hours had 
 passed, returning in the evening, he found the woman 
 almost in a swoon. 
 
 "Art conquered yet?" he asked her roughly, be- 
 cause his pain was great. 
 
 "In the name of Allah, water!" she said, faintly. 
 
 Mahmoud loosed the woman's bonds. 
 
 ' ' Kneel before me, then — kneel, v;oman, at my 
 feet!" 
 
 The woman knelt before him, and he raised his 
 water-vessel to her lips. 
 
 "Thou hast come too late to free me," she said 
 presently. "I have suffered much, ]\Iahmoud — 
 look no more upon me, for my beauty is all gone !" 
 
 "How is thy heart, beloved? Hast thou re- 
 solved to be obedient to thy lawful master?" 
 
 "0 Allah, help me ! O Lord, have I not suffered 
 enough already ? Who shall be my master ? ' ' she said 
 haughtily, as she arose. "I am strong, the praise to 
 Allah. What is thy pleasure with me, Sheikh? Is 
 the appointed hour at hand?" asked Fetneh, calmly, 
 as she feebly rose and stood before him. "If so, be
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 147 
 
 swift — for I am Aveary — I desire to die ! Be thou 
 merciful, that Allah's wrath may be averted from 
 thee. Lo ! here are all thy gifts to me — these pearls 
 — these precious stones — but death will be thy last, 
 best gift to me!" 
 
 Mahmoud looked upon her, but he answered not. 
 
 "Am I to die? Great is thy goodness to me!" 
 
 Fetneh cast a strange look at her husband. 
 There was a kind of gratitude in it — something in- 
 finitely helpless, something childlike. All her fierce 
 and fiery bitterness was gone. 
 
 Eaieeling at his feet again, she kissed his hand, 
 and placed it on her head. 
 
 "Allah is the only Allah— the All-Merciful. Be 
 thou merciful to me, lest the consuming wrath of 
 Allah fall upon thee. Sin not, I entreat thee !" 
 
 Mahmoud turned his face avfay from her, and 
 pulled his burnouse over his ej^es, and stood in 
 gloomy silence. He felt his own impotence, and his 
 heart ached pitifully. But there was no suggestion 
 ol relenting in his face as Fetneh knelt before him. 
 
 "What vv'ouldst thou?" 
 
 "Let it rest yet for a little time, stubborn 
 one!" 
 
 The sudden return of hope brought an intoler- 
 able, unutterable, momentary pain with it to Fetneh.
 
 us MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "With difficulty she restrained herself from crying- 
 cait. These last hours had set their mark on her. 
 She had crouched here in the darkness, chained and 
 terrified, looking a slow and cruel, solitary death 
 full in the face. Awaiting the will of Allah, as 
 she thought, almost stupified with fear and fatalism. 
 
 Fetneh had bowed her head in silent resigna- 
 tion. Because "It Avas written" was enough for 
 the Arab woman. It was to be accepted. It was 
 Kismet. The fatalism of her race — the fatalism 
 that lies always at the root of the Moslem faith — 
 had been strong upon this woman. But now the 
 effort to refrain from crying out appalled her. 
 
 Then Mahmoud said: — 
 
 "Here will I leave thee, Fetneh! And this 
 I tell thee — that by now the Frank is gone away 
 with the Bedouins of the desert to his captivity. 
 
 "How long will his captivity last?" she asked. 
 
 "Until thy ransom shall be paid to me, stub- 
 born one!" he answered coldly, looking on her with 
 his dark, intolerant eyes. 
 
 "Allah is the only Allah — and Allah loves those 
 who are merciful. Be merciful, and gain the smile 
 of Allah! Here on earth wilt thou gain Allah 'r, 
 smile, and the joys of Paradise will all be thine; 
 they will await thee in the life to come. Have
 
 ^IIKAGE OF THE DESERT. 149 
 
 mercy, therefore, Mahmond Bey! Take my life, 
 and let the Frank go free ! ' ' 
 
 "Allah is great, and Mahomet is His Prophet!" 
 he said, with a hard look. 
 
 He deigned no other ans-wer. 
 
 He chained up again the helpless and enfeebled 
 woman, worn out by her emotions and sufferings, in 
 the same fashion as before, and, taking the lamp 
 away with him, extinguished it outside in the court- 
 yard of the mosciue. 
 
 At last, the cry hovering on Fetneh's lips es- 
 caped, in spite of her hard effort at control. 
 
 "Allah Beh!" 
 
 One piteous and plaintive, melancholy cry. 
 
 The low wail from the darkness followed I\Iah- 
 moud as he left the ruined temple, and came out into 
 the moonlight, a sound of unutterable sadness and 
 despair; and Mahmoud shook from head to foot; 
 but still he closed his ears to it remorselessly, that 
 he might not hear, lest he be tempted to relent. 
 
 As he finished scraping up the sand again to 
 conceal the opening as before, where he had entered, 
 Feyruzah whinnied softly to him. The Arab cast 
 his arms about his mare's neck, and she rubbed her 
 gentle head against his bosom. 
 
 ' ' Wouldst thou betray thy lord, O Feyruzah, or 
 thy lord's love, like all thy sex?"
 
 150 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 The mare appeared to gaze at him with deep re- 
 proach in her fall, dark, liquid eye, and he caressed 
 her, and sprang on her back. 
 
 Suddenly the thrilling cry of a Avoman in great 
 anguish rang through the silent night. Mahmoud 
 turning sharply, gazed in the direction of the sound, 
 lifting one hand to his ear. He blenched suddenly, 
 biting his lips fiercely, till the blood came, to con- 
 trol himself — but he went on. Fetneh's last de- 
 spairing cry became absorbed once more into the 
 mastering silence of the lonely desert. 
 
 But the plaintive moan of Fetneh's prayer still 
 rang painfully in his ears, and followed him in 
 fancy, as he galloped madly away in the faint moon- 
 light like one pursued, across the rolling plain. And 
 he could not forget that last wild and imploring, 
 anguished look that she had cast upon him as he 
 left the Mosque. The plaintive moan of Fetneh's 
 prayer seemed to tremble with infinite melancholy 
 over the rolling plain. 
 
 But an hour later he was riding back again; 
 drawn to the old ^Mosque as by a powerful and re- 
 sistless magnet that draws a piece of hard insen- 
 sate iron. For he had felt a sudden yearning strong 
 within his breast to look upon her face again — to 
 return and comfort her. He loved the woman. 
 Only his death could alter that. That at present
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 151 
 
 v.'as his sole thought, and it was enough for him. 
 The huge silent moonlit waste was all around him, 
 without a sign of the oasis he had lately left. Yet 
 Fetneh's cry rang strongly in his ears through the 
 night. He stood silently stroking his horse's neck, 
 and turned his troubled eyes towards the dark green 
 line of the horizon. Then he slowly mounted to 
 return. 
 
 At length he came to the edge of the oasis. The 
 raoon saw jMahmoud standing with the Avhite hood 
 of his burnouse drawn forward over his head. Worn 
 out with his violent emotion and exertion, he lay 
 down to sleep beneath the palms, and wait for 
 morning. He felt that, without rest, he had no power 
 to enter yet. , 
 
 The stars shone with a pure serenity overhead. 
 The blue overhead turned into violet — the green 
 leaves into black; then the stars shone out once 
 more between the crowns of the palm-trees in the 
 oasis, and between the straight stems of the palms. 
 The great green leaves swished slowly up above 
 him in the faint night breeze. Then the weird and 
 overvv-helming, wonderful silence of the Eastern de- 
 sert night claimed its inheritance. 
 
 JMahmoud lay sleeping there at last, worn out, 
 beneath the palms of the oasis, near the ruined
 
 152 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Mosque where Fetneli was held captive in her silver 
 chain. 
 
 A stronger breath of the cool wind came over 
 the flats, and all the palm-trees rustled. There vras 
 a faint stir of life throughout the oasis. A bird 
 flew across the shadowy space beneath the trees. 
 Then there was the sudden Eastern change from 
 darkest night to sunrise. 
 
 In the early dawn Mahmoud Bey awoke, and 
 made his way again into the ancient temple, where, 
 once more, he lighted, in the alcove, the old Moorish 
 lamp. Then he turned, agonised, to look upon the 
 woman. 
 
 Drooping within the loop of her ovrn silver 
 girdle, in all the richness of her Avedding fiuery, her 
 head forlornly resting on her breast ; in that dusk}', 
 lonely, decorated place, with unseen death — Mah- 
 moud knew it noAV instinctively — concealed in all 
 the deadly cracks and crannies of the crumbling 
 walls; where the rich, decorative arabesques seem- 
 ed but cruel mockery. 
 
 As he raised the woman in his arms, from her 
 still bosom fell a scorpion. Mahmoud saw the 
 v;ritliing, deadly horror which had brought the wo- 
 man v^hom he loved to the great silence. A grey 
 hue was on his lips ; a strange and tender pity in
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 15.^ 
 
 liis brooding face as he hung over her. He sank at 
 Fetneh's feet. 
 
 "I was cruel to thee, beloved — 0, woman of my 
 soul. Yet I loved thee, thou ill-starred, ill-fated 
 Fetneh! It is the will of Allah! La illah il' Al- 
 lah!" 
 
 The Bride of Death — not Mahmoud Bey! He 
 gently raised her head until it rested on his bosom, 
 and burning tears fell from those once resolutely- 
 hard and tearless eyes, as he kissed the dead face 
 tenderly, with all his former violence and passion 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 After Fetneli's Marriage Festival was over, the 
 English party, all unknowing of her tragic fate, 
 made preparation to set forward the next day npou 
 a shorter journey, further in the desert. 
 
 They rested on the way Avith Douhi. sheikh of 
 a village consisting of a few mud and thatch huts, 
 v/ith its poor little stock of goats and kine and 
 pigeons. Douhi was a man of thirty-four, with the 
 face of a desert eagle ; of dark complexion, fine fea- 
 tures, black head, beard, and moustache. His face 
 was sensual, but not sufficiently so to detract from 
 his good looks. 
 
 "Black blood shows itself in this Arab's slight- 
 ly thick and heavy lips," said Middleton to Mr. 
 Cleveland. 
 
 "His slightly overhanging lids give his dark 
 eyes an occasional curious look of lassitude quite 
 out of keeping with his face," said Mr. Cleveland, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 Douhi presently requested an interview with 
 the English party. He stood for some minutes 
 stroking his black beard, while his bold eyes glanced
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 155 
 
 from one face to another. He suddenly addressed 
 himself in Arabic to Miss Seraphina : — 
 
 "Wouldst be willing to lead a desert life — to 
 share my douar with me as thy chosen lord and 
 husband — away from thine own people?" 
 
 Miss Seraphina had only acquired a useless 
 smattering of Arabic, and, not rightly understand- 
 ing him, but seeing that she was courteously ad- 
 dressed, merely bowed and smiled for answer. The 
 Arab smiled gently in his beard. His piercing 
 black eyes stared her calmly out of countenance. 
 He presently spoke again. 
 
 "What does he say now?" inquired Miss Sera- 
 phina, uneasily. "I cannot follow him. Was it 
 not something about a welcome to his desert home?" 
 
 Ali began to interpret to her in the exaggerated 
 flowery Oriental language of courtesy of the East. 
 
 "In the early dawn, before ye marched, the 
 sheikh Douhi visited the camels at the well to see 
 them watered for the start. On the way back to 
 his own tent, he saw by chance, unveiled, the state- 
 ly Frankish woman, whom he heard giving just 
 reproof unto an erring servant. And his heart was. 
 set on fire hy her stateliness and queenly beauty, and 
 by the words of wisdom that fell from her tongue; 
 so that he now desires her for his wife, and asks 
 her hand in marriage. He offers her a hearty wel- 
 come to his desert home!"
 
 156 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Thus smilingly interpreted the suave and 
 smooth-tongued Ali, in the usual flowery language 
 of compliment common to Orientals. 
 
 "Douhi desires the hand of this Queen of the 
 ]\rorning — of this Lady of Light!" said the delight- 
 ed Dick. 
 
 ''This is rather sudden!'.' Miss Seraphina fal- 
 tered, feebly, with a stricken look, not altogether 
 untouched by the delicate flattery. "Tell the sheikh 
 I think very highly of his offer, though, of course, 
 I cannot accept it — but I consider him a perfect 
 desert gentleman!" 
 
 "Bravo! Our Aunt Seraphina must have kiss- 
 ed the Blarney Stone!" cried Dick. 
 
 "If she did, she did so Avithout ever knowing 
 it!" exclaimed her brother. 
 
 " 'Tis better to have kissed in vain than not at 
 all!" said Dick, sententiously. 
 
 Then said Ali, interpreting, this time without 
 the Oriental courtesy: — 
 
 "Douhi also says he desires the stately woman 
 for his wife because she will bring good dowry, and 
 make good manager of his unruly harem. He will 
 make the woman his chief wife, and she will obey 
 him, but will rule his harem." 
 
 "Striving to better, oft Ave mar what's well!" 
 said Dick. "Mahomet and the mountain, Avith a
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 157 
 
 vengeance — and Aunt Seraphina ! You can take 
 a horse to the water, but you can't make him 
 drink ! And moreover, two-tongued Ali reminds me 
 of the two-tailed pointer dog. He was taken his 
 first gunning, and the minute he saw a bird his tail 
 stiffened like a ramrod. Suddenly the tip of his 
 tail appeared to open up a little, and then it split 
 down the v/hole length. He was a cross-eyed dog, 
 and he'd been trying to point the bird the way it 
 looked to him ! Oh ! ye faithful followers of the 
 Prophet! Douhi wants to marry our Aunt Sera- 
 phina!" 
 
 "Wants to marry me !" exclaimed Miss Sera- 
 phina, frantically, now thoroughly enlightened, and 
 totally unable to believe her ears. "The wretch! 
 Me — an Englishw^oman — to be made chief wife, for- 
 sooth, and manager of his unruly, miserable harem!" 
 
 "Oh! how she'd manage 'em!" interpolated 
 Dick. "Some are born to greatness; some achieve 
 greatness; but Aunt Seraphina has had greatness 
 thrust upon her ! ' ' 
 
 "I will only marrj'' where I can respect and 
 love," remarked Miss Seraphina. 
 
 "I'll only wed a man whose step is music to 
 mine ear!" said Dick. 
 
 "I should be giving up all that I had in life, 
 if I stayed here!" mused Miss Seraphina, much ex-
 
 158 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 asperated, yet with a sort of indecision in her tones. 
 "You have nothing to give up," said Mr. 
 ■Cleveland, brusquelj^; "especially in the way of the 
 most ordinary common-sense ! ' ' 
 
 The sheikh now spoke again, and Ali interpret- 
 ed. 
 
 "Douhi would know the Frankish woman's an- 
 swer ! ' ' 
 
 "Is the courtship coming on apace?" asked 
 Dick, with interest. 
 
 Her white umbrella held upbraidingly above 
 her head, Miss Seraphina, goaded thus, marched a 
 •step or two upon the sheikh. In this valorous atti- 
 tude, her admiring and aspiring suitor regarded her 
 with fresh approval. 
 
 Another tall sheikh came forward at this mo- 
 ment to inspect her coldly with his hard, dark eyes, 
 under very thick, black brows. He had a very 
 dark complexion and black beard, and his whit.3 
 'flowing garments made him appear darker. 
 
 "Sherlock Holmes never wanted what he had 
 aspired to, when he found he couldn't get it," mur- 
 mured Dick. "He's my model — he turned aside to 
 other things, when things he had aspired to proved 
 unattainable. But Doiihi seems to want Aunt Sera- 
 phina more because he cannot get her. What is 
 the sheikh saying?"
 
 :\IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 159 
 
 "This woman is not young or fair, my brother!" 
 the sheikh said to Donhi, in Arabic. 
 
 "Nevertheless, I would have this woman for a 
 wife, and manager of my harem," replied Douhi, 
 persistently, his Arab obstinacy further roused by 
 the denial. 
 
 "She is neither of thy race, nor of thy faith." 
 
 "Oolah — Allah Akbar! God is great. Praise 
 to Allah, we may change the woman's heart, and 
 
 Allah will change her faith!" 
 
 "Please yourself," Dick murmured, "and you 
 can be certain of pleasing at least one person!" 
 
 Miss Seraphina still stood with her umbrella 
 up in attitude of defence. 
 
 "The woman is old, and is not handsome," said 
 the other .sheikh. 
 
 "What does he say?" inquired Miss Sera- 
 phina, piteously. 
 
 Ali interpreted again without the flowery 
 Oriental style and Eastern phrasing. 
 
 "He says thou art old, and very ugly!" 
 
 "AVhere is my umbrella?" cried Miss Sera- 
 phina, widly. 
 
 "Held up high above your head!" said Dick. 
 "But temper the wind gently to this poor shorn 
 lamb! There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip —
 
 160 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Douhi's not accustomed to refusals; has but lately 
 learnt this lesson." 
 
 "Ay — ah! Ay — ah! Stoppa! Backa!" cried 
 Miss Seraphina, in her limited Arabic. 
 
 Her umbrella descended heavily upon the tur- 
 ban of the hostile sheikh. As he straightened hi& 
 turban again from the blow, he merely ran his dark 
 ej'es over her tall, straight form approvingly. Douhi 
 v;as regarding her with calm approval and bold ad- 
 miration, which was evidently much increased by 
 her late attack upon his brother sheikh. 
 
 "I understand now thy great love and admira- 
 tion for this woman," said the hostile sheikh ta 
 Douhi. "0 Lady, the light of thy countenance is 
 now upon me also ! " 
 
 ''Arabs evidently like a little spirit in a wo- 
 man!" murmured Dick. 
 
 "Fain would I lead men gently with a silkea 
 string," Miss Seraphina murmured, smirking, on 
 the sheikh's words being repeated to her by her 
 delighted nephew, as she turned modestly away. 
 
 "Drag men with a halter or a camel's nose- 
 rope, rather!" muttered Dick, satirically. 
 
 The two sheikhs accompanied them part of the 
 way on their return journey to the douar of Ahmed 
 Bey, and leaving them, went home again to their 
 own douars.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 161 
 
 ]\Ir. Cleveland was rather uneasy respecting the 
 last looks of Donhi at Miss Seraphina. 
 
 "I am afraid of Douhi's vengeance," he ex- 
 claimed. "Did you notice his black looks at us 
 on the departure of our caravan?" 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," said his son. "The muddiest 
 •water '11 settle, if you only let it alone." 
 
 "He is angry because he could not get "vvhat he 
 desired. And Arabs are not used to these re- 
 fusals." 
 
 "Perhaps he wanted it because he couldn't get 
 it!" 
 
 Ahmed Bey received the party coldly, and with- 
 out his former display of cordiality. He accorded 
 them not his former hearty welcome. He soon 
 suggested to them a fiirther expedition, to which 
 they acceded. Ahmed Bey's countenance was 
 graver than usual; he appeared disturbed; and :t 
 was evident that when he conducted his guests out 
 of camp, and had set them fairly on their way 
 one morning, for some unknown private reason 
 their departure was a great relief to him. 
 
 "It appears to be a decided case of welcome 
 the coming, speed the parting guest." said Dick, 
 when, after a hearty breakfast, they left the village 
 of Ahmed Bey and pursued their journey, their 
 
 K
 
 162 MURAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 host providing them with an escort for a portion 
 of the way. 
 
 "It is our Kismet!" Middleton said, grimly. 
 
 "I've heard, said Dick, "that their idea of 
 Kismet may be illustrated thus : If an Arab sits upoa 
 a pin, he merely says, it was written ; and calmly 
 replaces the offending instrument of pain for some- 
 one else's Kismet. He's of the same school of 
 philosophy as Mrs. Squeers. 'Malesch!' says the 
 Arab, come what may. 'It'll be all the same to me 
 a hundred years hence!' " 
 
 They had a long and weary ride that day, and 
 were glad to reach their tents in the evening. 
 
 "What a busy and welcoming scene is the en- 
 campment after the day's ride," said Cecil to Mid- 
 dleton, as they approached. 
 
 "The Arabs and camels appear picturesque, 
 thus scattered about in groups," responded Middle- 
 ton. "Many of the former seated round their 
 blazing fires." 
 
 "The tents are all lighted up with Eastern 
 lamps ; the tent doors thrown wide open — the Arabs 
 are moving about from tent to tent; jMustafa, with 
 his gay laugh, and old Ibrahim in his grave and 
 silent fashion." 
 
 The snarl of camels was audible from a small 
 passing train. Then, as evening wore on and night-
 
 :^IIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 163 
 
 fall came, and the sounds of the encampment 
 gradually ceased, dying gently away into a total 
 silence, Mr. Cleveland retired to the tent he shared 
 with Dick and Middleton; and the women went to 
 bed in their own tent. 
 
 The Arabs were already sleeping by their 
 dying-out fire.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland, who had felt unusually fatigued, 
 was now asleep. Middleton. who could not sleep, 
 went to the entrance of the tent he shared with 
 him, and looked out upon the night. He could hear 
 the jackals yelping in the far distance, but it was 
 the only occasional sound that broke the stillness. 
 He quietly opened the curtain of the tent, and a 
 pure flood of moonlight poured through the opening. 
 He stepped outside. He longed to be alone in 
 the great starlit solitude of the waste beyond, to 
 think. 
 
 As he passed the women's tent he heard the 
 voice of Cecil softly call his name. The faint scent 
 of his cigar had reached her through the partly- 
 opened door of the tent. 
 
 "Is that you, Mr. Middleton?" 
 
 "It is I. Miss Beresford. I am taking a short 
 stroll before I go to bed. Good night!" 
 
 "Good night!" the girl responded, drowsily. 
 
 ]\Iiddleton passed on, and presently he stepped 
 outside the encircling encampment on to the dim 
 waste beyond. As he passed, an Arab stealthily
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 163 
 
 raised his head where he lay amongst his fellows 
 by the dying-out fire, and looked after him for a 
 moment with attention, till he disappeared from 
 view. Then he cautiously arose and followed him. 
 Middleton was standing motionless, absorbed in 
 thought, where his figure could be only just dis- 
 cerned in the dim light. Beyond him was the vague 
 and shadowy desert. 
 
 The moon was now obscured by passing clouds. 
 He lingered, watching the moon rise again, till his 
 cigar was smoked out. The desert was soon flooded 
 with a clear silver stream from the moon rays. 
 
 A low, distant sound rose suddenly behind a 
 sand dune on his left hand. He resolved to investi- 
 gate, and mounted the low hill, treading the crisp 
 sand underfoot, and descended into the fold of 
 desert beyond it ; he paused there for a moment, out 
 of sight of the camp, and looked around him. listen- 
 ing to the soughing of the slight fitful wind that 
 had arisen, as he observed the darkening sky. 
 
 A larger cloud obscured the face of the moon. 
 He felt a sudden, sharp gust of wind upon his cheek, 
 and, in the dark, a multitude of sand grains Avere 
 blown smartly against his face. 
 
 In a few seconds, had he been ou guard, he 
 might have seen that single figure creep, like a 
 dark, furtive shadow, from somewhere out of the
 
 166 MURAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 dimness of the plain, and cautiously approach him 
 from behind. In a moment an Arab cloak was flung 
 about his head and shoulders, and Middleton, stifled 
 and blinded by the heavy folds, was dragged to- 
 wards a camel that was waiting near, and was 
 roughly flung upon the saddle. The camel was then 
 instantly driven forward. 
 
 Middleton 's unknown captor stopped the camel 
 at some distance from the caravan, commanded it 
 to kneel, and secured his captive with a camel 
 halter, his head still remaining muffled in the aba, 
 till he was nearly suffocated. He then set him once 
 more upon the camel, and they journeyed on. 
 
 It had the effect of a nightmare on Middleton, 
 for there r;as no sound save the dull padding of the 
 camerjs feet on the soft sand. Soon he remembered 
 in a sudden flash the dark night, late hour, and the 
 unbroken silence of the sleeping camp. He knew 
 that he was being carried away from his own cara- 
 van into the silent desert, helpless in some unknown, 
 ruthless hands. 
 
 By-and-bye some kind of stir around him told 
 him that some change he could not see was taking 
 place. He fancied that they had been joined, or 
 passed, by a body of camel-men. The moon had 
 risen to the full, and was gleaming brightly 
 through a rift of cloud, and the aba round his head
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 167 
 
 becoming disarranged in his vain endeavours to free 
 himself, he could see, through a fold in it, 
 shrouded horsemen in the dusk, a straggling line 
 of riders some way off, ahead of him, and he began 
 to hope for help. His captor was still walking at 
 the camel's head and leading it. 
 
 The Arabs in front now turned, and, pausing, 
 Avaved their lances, as though they made some signal 
 to a comrade ; and when they came up with the 
 party, Middleton discovered, to his chagrin, that his 
 captor belonged to it, and his friends were evidently 
 waiting for him, with a mount. He took his seat 
 upon a camel, and they all Vv-ent forward at a steady 
 pace. 
 
 It was like a dream to IMiddleton. the strange- 
 ness, and the absolute silence of it, as he was borne 
 forward upon those soft, shuffling, sponge-like feet, 
 and savr the swaying figures of the Arabs on each 
 side of him. The long line of camels moved on as 
 quietly as phantoms, bearing on to unknown haven 
 these mysterious and silent men. 
 
 They passed on over the soft sand in silence 
 only broken by the gentle soughing of the wind, and 
 the ceaseless shuffle of the camels' feet padding 
 upon the sand. Not a murmur broke the stillness 
 anywhere — not the faintest sound. Before and be- 
 hind him were the absolutelj^ silent, swaying, white
 
 16S MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 figures of the Arabs; and he concluded that he had 
 been captured by a stray band of the Wandering 
 Bedouins; perhaps in hope he might be ransomed by 
 his friends. 
 
 For several hours he travelled thus, painfully 
 stiff and cramped, and aching in every limb ; then 
 the camel stopped again; he heard the sound of a 
 guttural Arab voice; the cam.el knelt; and then he 
 was taken down, the muffling aba falling alto- 
 gether from his face. 
 
 Middleton struggled vainly, for two strong 
 Arabs held him by each arm, and a couple of quick 
 turns with a camel halter further secured his wrists. 
 Then he was roughly thrust within a tent, and he 
 could hear them talking together in low guttural 
 voices just outside. * 
 
 The darkness of night was changing to dawn 
 Vi'hen he was brought forth again, and half a dozen 
 motionless, white figures were visible, standing in 
 an attitude of patient waiting by the tent in the 
 cold breath of coming dawn. 
 
 As the light grew stronger, a dark face peered 
 steadily at him from under a peaked Arab hood. His 
 captors had lighted a brushwood fire to warm them- 
 selves, and it blazed cheerfully as they piled it up, 
 and some of them proceeded to make coffee, whilst 
 the rest lay down beside the fire. Middleton looked
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 169 
 
 -drearily from the tent door upon the lonely dunes. 
 They released him from his bonds, but looked harshly 
 and forbiddingly upon him when he attempted to 
 question them. 
 
 Middleton was thankful for the warmth of the 
 fire and freedom to stretch his cramped and aching 
 limbs. He vainly spoke to the Arabs; they made 
 no response, and they took no further notice of him. 
 But though they did not interfere with him, he 
 knew they watched his movements closely. There 
 was no hope whatever of any chance of an escape. 
 Around him he saw grim desolation; around him 
 stretched a wild and sterile country. Nothing grew 
 here but the wiry desert grass, a few stunted 
 bushes, and many cactus shrubs. In the midst of 
 the vastness, immense tracts of land faded away 
 into far blue distances. A dreary silence prevailed, 
 save for the padding of the camels' feet, and the 
 harsh occasional voices of the Arabs. 
 
 Soon the tent was struck, and again as they 
 travelled forward in the early morning ^Middleton 
 peered back continually for the help that never 
 came. An hour after sunrise his captors called 
 another halt, and food and water were shared 
 amongst them all, Middleton receiving a small por- 
 tion. 
 
 The desolation here was complete. All around
 
 170 MIKAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 lay sand dunes, and here and there saltpetre lay 
 white upon the dreary waste. Middleton, travel- 
 ling with his captors through this desolation, looked 
 drearily across the distant flats, but could see no- 
 thing but a thin line of white bones, drawn with- 
 out a break across the plains, from one horizon to 
 another, showing an old caravan route, where the 
 track was strewn with the bleached bones of camels 
 that had perished on some long desert march. 
 The immense spaces of the desert were now bathed 
 in the afternoon sun, and it shone upon them 
 brightly. 
 
 They passed through a sand-storm over an arid 
 plain. By-and-bye they camped near some rough 
 bushes, and when night came, ]\Iiddleton suffered 
 much from cold, for there was a chill breeze. And 
 though the Arabs wrapped themselves up in their 
 abas, they gave Middleton no extra covering. They 
 had camped in a hollow, and he could see the camels 
 against the sky-line, as he tried to wait with patience 
 for the dawn, and for the journey's end. 
 
 Then came the pitiless gold of a new dawn, and 
 the next day, in its turn, brought him an eriual 
 amount of suffering from thirst and heat, as he was 
 roughly jolted on the camel's back over the hot sand 
 and stones. lie raised sun-wearied and despairing 
 eyes to the horizon. By this time he was consumed
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 171 
 
 with thirst, and scorched almost to the bone. He 
 was only conscious of the sun, the sky, and the 
 burning, dusty atmosphere through which they rode. 
 
 "Ill the name of Allah, water!" he said pain- 
 fully to his grimly silent captors. 
 
 One Arab, more kind-hearted than the rest, 
 guided his camel near, and gave him his skin-bottle 
 containing water. Middletou raised it eagerly to 
 his parched lips and drank, and gratefully thanked 
 the Arab as he gave it back. 
 
 All that day they journeyed steadily till they 
 came to a water-pool. They camped there for food 
 and rest; filled their water-bottles, watered their 
 camels, and ate their allowance of dates and doora, 
 giving Middleton a scanty share. 
 
 Though they could see none travelling, by-and- 
 bye they saw some far-away camels grazing, mere 
 specks upon the empty space of earth and sky. The 
 ground here rose genth' and continuously for some 
 time before they saw in the distance some pitched 
 tents, with the dark forms of some mules and camels. 
 
 Their journey ended next morning at a Bedouin 
 village on the skirt of the desert edge, the border 
 and extreme confine of the Sahara and Sudan. A 
 few mud and thatch huts, and a "gliima" or two, 
 v/as where these Wandering Bedouins had their 
 abode. The village was pitched in a circle, each
 
 172 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 tent or hut touching its near neighbour, so that 
 there was no way into the circle except by the one 
 entrance, which was always closed at night by a 
 high stack of brambles. 
 
 Beyond the village, a number of goats were 
 browsing on the wiry desert grass, and some camels 
 were lying down. A number of brown Arab child- 
 ren sAvarmed about. The busy women of the douar 
 ceased their labours to approach him, staring at the 
 stranger with unabashed curiosity. The desert men 
 crowded about him with their strong, fierce coun- 
 tenances, hailing the Bedouins who had arrived, with 
 the peculiar accented violence usual with the Arabs. 
 And an old sheikh came out to the doorway of his 
 tent. 
 
 He made an extremely unpleasant impression 
 on Middleton as the Arabs led their captive up to 
 him. He struck him as being possibly the greatest 
 scoundrel. Middleton regarded his captors with a 
 stern and set expression on his countenance, but 
 with no sign of the uneasiness he felt at heart. They 
 all regarded him with fierce animosity' and strong 
 dislike, staring at him with fanatical and cruel, 
 ruthless eyes. 
 
 "The Shereef — the British Consul — ransom!" 
 Middleton exclaimed, in curt Arabic.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 173 
 
 The sheikh regarded him in silence, as he 
 stroked his beard thoughtfully. 
 
 "I am an Englishman," said Middleton, address- 
 ing him eagerly. "Take me back to my own cara- 
 van, or to the tents of the sheikh, Ahmed Bey, and 
 you shall have reward. I will pay you well if you 
 will have me ransomed. Take me to the English 
 Consul, if you prefer, at I\Ioroeco or Algiers." 
 
 "Thou wilt give us gold?" 
 
 The old sheikh turned eagerly to the Bedouins 
 who had captured Middleton, and consulted with 
 them aside. 
 
 "Doubtless the Frank can pay us well if we 
 ransom him," he said. "Pay in golden pieces." 
 
 "There hath been command that he should not 
 be ransomed, but should be delivered into perpetual 
 and hopeless slavery," objected the leader of the 
 party that had abducted Middleton. 
 
 The Arabs of the douar called down maledic- 
 tions on the unknown commander's head. 
 
 "May the smile of Allah be upon him!" com- 
 mented the old sheikh, sarcastically. 
 
 "We must ask the sheikh of all the sheikhs 
 about this matter, brother!" said another Arab. 
 
 "Allah be praised that we have him to ask!" 
 said the old sheikh maliciously. 
 
 He sent the other Arabs presently about their
 
 174 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 business, and sat upon the sand before his hut. He 
 looked at Middleton attentively, with crafty eyes. 
 
 "How shall I know that the Frank will pay me 
 the promised ransom?" he said presently, with i\ 
 subtle and cunning look on his wrinkled face. 
 "Though he speaketh boastfully, j^et he may be 
 poor. Let the stranger speak. If he indeed be rich 
 in his oAvn land, perchance he may be ransomed. 
 Wliat dost thou say?" 
 
 His dark eyes flamed with the light of greed. 
 Middleton could see that it would be an easy matter 
 to whet that appetite, already so voracious. 
 
 "I am rich in my own country. If I give you 
 gold," said Middleton, in his best Arabic, "will you 
 set me free?" 
 
 A gleam of suspicion came in the old Bedouin's 
 eyes. 
 
 "How much wilt thou pay? I must have large 
 gift of ransom," he said, impatiently. 
 
 "I will give large gift on my release. Go to 
 the other Arabs and arrange the matter with them. 
 Go ! Allah Avill reward you, if you help me. Let me 
 pay my ransom and go free!" 
 
 He saw again the sheikh's expression of great 
 greed, and waited hopefully for his words to have 
 effect.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 175 
 
 The old Bedouin named a large sum of monev 
 to him. 
 
 ''I cannot take less, Sidi ! I am a poor man." 
 
 ''I will pay you what you ask," said IMiddle- 
 ton. 
 
 He knew that with the Children of the East it 
 is the silent man who gets the best of an argument. 
 He therefore said no more, and the Arab departed 
 presently and went away to consider the matter 
 privily before consulting with the rest, for the 
 offered ransom was not to be lightly refused. 
 
 The Bedouins of the douar were sitting about 
 on sand heaps in the shadow of some thorn trees, 
 as it grew hot. The sheikh, approaching them, they 
 argued together for some time, with apparent vio- 
 lence. 
 
 To ]\Iiddleton, the half-hour that passed seemed 
 an eternity; his heart was sickening with suspense 
 of hope deferred. Now and then he could hear 
 fragments of their arguments, the wild-eyed desert 
 men uttering terrible maledictions. 
 
 "He is an Infidel!" 
 
 ''Absolute Unbeliever!" 
 
 "Dog of a Christian!" 
 
 "Why should we help an Infidel to escape — an 
 Unbeliever of ]\Iahomet's faith?" 
 
 "Nay," said the old sheikh, craftilv. "Avhat
 
 176 ]\riRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 matters his belief to lis, if he leaves the eoiintr^^ 
 and we have the ransom ? ' ' 
 
 "Nay — by Mahomet's beard, we will sell him 
 at Timbuctoo!" 
 
 "There Avill the Unbeliever have his daily por- 
 tion of the whip, and the bastinado — and we the- 
 gold!" 
 
 In the end, the old sheikh mused apart awhile, 
 and then returned to the expectant Middleton. He 
 smiled at him Avith gentle resignation. He told 
 him that the Bedouins greatly feared the wrath of 
 Mahmoud Bey if they should set him free. 
 
 "I cannot ransom thee at present. Be content, 
 then, to remain here at our tents. Peradventure it 
 is the will of Allah that thou shouldst become a 
 slave, to toil in the Sahara." 
 
 Middleton could not restrain a gesture of de- 
 spair. His movement dreAV the old sheikh's sinister 
 and cunning eyes upon him. 
 
 "Perchance here thou Avilt become one of the- 
 true sons of the Prophet — embrace the true religion?' 
 Allah doth all things well!" 
 
 "You will not aid me, then, in any way?" ex- 
 claimed Middleton, desperately. 
 
 The old Arab smiled cunningly, and shook his 
 head, but did not ansAver. Then he went away, and 
 Middleton was talven to a hut.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 177 
 
 A murmur of many voices reached his ears from 
 outside in the desert; loud guttural cries that 
 sounded angry, and the snarls of camels. The noise 
 became more pressing, sounded nearer, till at last 
 a wild troop of Bedouins approached the hut. 
 
 The sight of these wild, thronging, desert men, 
 the light from their ferocious, gleaming eyes made 
 Middleton feel hot, and the harsh clamour from 
 their throats excited him. They roused within him 
 anger and disgust. Involuntarily he made a gesture 
 of repulsion. 
 
 Instantly a crowd of dark faces and turbaned 
 heads were thrust through the opening of the hut; 
 a number of dusky hands were shaken menacingly, 
 and the hoarse cry of threatening voices rose into 
 an almost deafening uproar. Then the old sheikh 
 appeared, with angry countenance, saying a few 
 words, sharply; the clamour ceased, and the Be- 
 douins went silently awaj'. 
 
 The time dragged sloAvly by; the sun blazed 
 pitilessly down. JMiddleton suffered greatly as he 
 sat in the low doorway of the mud hut, silently 
 watching the smoke curl up from the Bedouins' fires 
 into the hot glare of the sun ; and the lizards creep- 
 ing slowly over the hot, baked earth. 
 
 The afternoon wore on. A flock of goats trip- 
 ped slowly by, followed by two little Arab boys in 
 
 h
 
 178 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 rags. One of the boys Avas playing with some skill 
 upon a pipe covered with red arabesques. Into the 
 village, for the night, the flocks and herds were 
 driven, as raids bj other Bedouin tribes were not 
 by any means infrequent here. And still he sat 
 and watched, with hopeless eyes, the sun go dowai. 
 
 Then out on the w^arm, clear air came a long- 
 drawn chanting call : — • 
 
 "Allah! Allah Akbar!" 
 
 The cry was taken up by other voices. 
 
 "It is the call to evening prayer," said a fierce- 
 eyed Arab to Middleton ; ' ' and the faithful will now 
 answer it. Soon wilt thou obey it, too ! ]\Iay Allah 
 incline tin' mind to receive the truth ! ' ' 
 
 He passed on, a fanatical, stern look of w^arning 
 in his sombre eyes. 
 
 "Allah! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!" 
 
 The sounds came with strange pleading from 
 those hoarse, brown throats, and fierce, bearded 
 lips; passing over the boundless confines of the 
 sterile desert. 
 
 "Allah! Allah Akbar!" 
 
 The plaintive melancholy murmuring of j^rayer 
 swelled forth on many voices into the infinite and 
 boundless spaces of the silent, rolling plains. 
 
 Worn out, exhaiisted, Middleton sank now into 
 despair and silent apathy. A young and comely
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 179 
 
 Bedouin woman brought him a bowl of milk and a 
 smoking dish of kous-kous, and set it pityingly by 
 his side, as he sat brooding. He drank the fresh 
 milk eagerly, but could not touch the other food. 
 
 Left quite alone, he remembered now, for the 
 first time, the strange and high-bred Arab girl whose 
 affection and advances he had formerly repulsed — 
 and now it flashed into his mind that perhaps this 
 was her vengeance — the wild and unrestrained, un- 
 reasoning vengeance of the wild and unrestrained, 
 unreasoning Children of the Desert. 
 
 Pie attempted to forget that former scene of 
 passion ; trying to believe that it meant nothing. The 
 Children of the East he kneAV to be free and capri- 
 cious ; they were the creatures of mere impulse ; 
 mysterious, impulsive, and imperious by turns; and 
 also very changeable in their desires. But he re- 
 called her wild, fierce words of threatening, com- 
 pared with the result, and hope therewith sank 
 sickened in his breast. 
 
 He ceased noAv to marvel at the dominant strong 
 chord of fatalism — at the tenacious, fatalistic philo- 
 sophy of all the Arab race. 
 
 "Kismet!" he reflected, with a ghastly smile. 
 "Am I becoming, then, a fatalist myself, like all 
 the Arabs here? Kismet? Does Allah truly will 
 it ? Allah wills it. It is written ! It is my fate—
 
 ISO MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 it is my destiny — it is my strange, predestined lot 
 — May Allah accord me, then, the patient resignation 
 of the Arab nature, and a stoical, endurant suffer- 
 ance of the hopeless and inevitable. Kismet — fate 
 — my destiny — whatever that may chance to be!" 
 
 For a ^yhile the sound of voices floated in to" 
 him. mingling with the dry rustle of the few palm- 
 trees stirring in a rising breeze. 
 
 But that night was feverish, oppressive, strange 
 to him. The unwonted, insufferable torment of 
 great thirst in the late journey hither, beneath d 
 burning sun, had had a cruel effect on him; and 
 although the cool night breeze had now sprung up, 
 in a kind of half delirium he seemed to wander, lost 
 and solitary, in the wilderness; and to hear strange, 
 faint echoes of long-silent voices of the friends that 
 he had known — men's voices — women's voices — even 
 the soft murmuring of children ; and never-ceasing, 
 impotent, wearisome, and monotonous murmuring to 
 them for help rose to his hot, parched lips. 
 
 Next da3' he felt much better, and the delirium 
 had passed away from him. He was given a mud 
 hut, and kept close prisoner, but he was not ill- 
 treated. He was left much alone ; but he knew thar, 
 he was watched continually. 
 
 Being himself a captive, he thought constantly 
 of Arthur as a possible prisoner. And his bitter
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 181 
 
 anguish was increased, greatly by the thought that 
 he was powerless now, indeed, to seek and rescue 
 him.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Meantime, at the camp in the morning, they 
 had missed Middleton. In the soft soil outside the 
 encampment they found tell-tale marks as of a 
 scuffle, and they saw the spoor of the camel on 
 Avhich iliddleton was thrown; they noticed that it 
 led far out into the waste beyond. Thej' followed 
 it awhile, until they lost the tracks where a light 
 wind had blown the sand upon them. There was 
 much wonder and much tribulation over the mystery 
 of his unaccountable disappearance. The caravan 
 was delayed there for some time for consultation, 
 for they knew not where to turn. 
 
 "He may have started on an early ride behind 
 the sandhills, and may soon return," Dick said, 
 hopefully. 
 
 "But that is unusual," objected Mr. Cleveland; 
 "and in the East, it is quite possible that anj'thing 
 might chance to a solitary traveller. "We know the 
 East to be unchangeable. And we must remember 
 that here we are bevond all civilisation. It is like
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 183 
 
 looking in a bushel of chaff for a single grain of 
 wheat." 
 
 He went to consult with Ibrahim and Mustafa 
 regarding routes, and the tw^o women sat down side 
 by side together beneath the shelter of a palm-tree ; 
 Miss Seraphina staring with disconsolate and stony 
 countenance across the sterile sultry waste. She paid 
 but scant attention to Cecil's words at first; but her 
 niece contrived ere long to coax some little hope 
 into her aunt's despairing heart, for Cecil put aside 
 her own sad thoughts to cheer and comfort her 
 companion. 
 
 "Besides," thought Cecil, pensively, "all our 
 fears may, after all, prove groundless, and he may 
 bo- safe I" 
 
 Next day, at dawn, the caravan went on its way, 
 winding further into the desert in a futile search of 
 Middleton. 
 
 The first thing that Cecil heard the morning 
 after, was that an Arab had brought tidings in the 
 night that a quarrel had arisen between Ahmed Bey 
 and his cousin Mahmoud Bey. This was unfortu- 
 nate, as they had intended returning to his village 
 to ask the aid of Ahmed Bey in their attempted 
 search for ]\Iiddleton. And they had meant to take 
 his douar first thing, in their line of travel. 
 
 Cecil found the messenger resting for break-
 
 184 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 fast by a cluster of dwarf olives, eating bread and 
 dates, his dromedary near awaiting his departure. 
 And he told her that Mesliow, who had been absent 
 on a journey from the douar of Ahmed Bey, would 
 reach their camp tliat night. 
 
 In the evening, from the doorway of her tent, 
 Cecil saw the party of their own Arabs seated 
 quietly in a circle round their blazing fire in a dead, 
 unwonted silence. The firelight played on their 
 impassive faces, and beyond them was the shadowy 
 desert. In a fevv^ moments a single figure came from 
 somewhere out of the dim plain, and slowly ap- 
 proached the party. To her intense relief and joy, 
 it was j\Ieshow. 
 
 Next morning Cecil rose at daAvn, and on leav- 
 ing her own tent she found jNIeshow busy about the 
 encampment. She came eagerly towards him and 
 entreated him for news. 
 
 "I liave this hour received sure tidings of the 
 Frank," he said at once in a cautious undertone, 
 that the Arabs might not hear. "A Bedouin told 
 me that a Frank traveller who has been lately 
 captured by his tribe, is being taken away to be 
 held captive in the mud huts of a douar belonging 
 to the Wandering Bedouins, far beyond Sus. He 
 said: 'He will afterwards be brought as a slave to 
 Tirabuctoo, and there will be sold. To-morrow they
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 185 
 
 will pack their tents aud go over the hills, and 
 along the rolling plains towards Timbuctoo. They 
 will travel over the Great Desert of Sahara, beyond 
 Sus, over which lies the route to Timbuctoo and the 
 Sudan. There seek ye him!' He said this to me — 
 no more — because I had once been his friend. Yet, 
 from one village to another, throughout the whole 
 Sudan, might ye, unaided, vainly seek the Frank!" 
 
 "Then Mr. Middleton has been actually forced 
 awaj'?" said Cecil, 
 
 "He hath indeed been forced away by stealth 
 at night — this have I learnt." 
 
 A grave and anxious look appeared in Cecil's 
 deeply brooding face. 
 
 "Will they take him, for certain, to the Sudan, 
 or the slave markets of Morocco — or perhaps Tim- 
 buctoo?" 
 
 * ' Most likely they will take him to Timbuctoo— 
 instant search must, then, be made for him." 
 
 "He might be killed," said Cecil, hurriedly, "if 
 he be not found and rescued soon." 
 
 "There is danger, lady — it perhaps means 
 death for him — or hopeless, certain slavery in the 
 Sudan." 
 
 "Is there no one who has power to help us in 
 our time of need?" 
 
 "Thanks be to Allah! There is one who hath
 
 186 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 power to discover the Frank's whereabouts. The 
 Great Solitary Sheikh will soon discover him if I 
 should fail. The Solitary One hath great influence 
 amongst the Arabs, because they have a super- 
 stitious reverence for him. We believe he is ]\Ia- 
 hornet's chosen Prophet. I will send my messenger 
 unto the Solitary Sheikh, that the Frank may be 
 sought soon. Nevertheless, I, too. will soon de- 
 part upon a search for him. Lest the Solitary 
 Sheikh by chance be absent from his douar upoa 
 some pilgrimage, I must hasten, meantime, to dis- 
 cover him unaided by the Sheikh, lest the Frank 
 perchance be put to death whilst we are tarrying. 
 There is yet another who can help me — even him 
 with whom I spoke before, and I know where to 
 find him. But I shall have to promise him much 
 gold in ransom. So shall the Frank have life in- 
 stead of death." 
 
 "They will ransom him?" she questioned, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I know not," he answered moodily. 
 
 "They will not take his life — they have no 
 cause ! ' ' 
 
 An anguished look came now in Cecil's eyes. 
 
 "Mahmoud Bey, mine uncle, was jealous of the 
 Frank for his newly-married wife, the woman Fet.- 
 neh. And Mahmoud Bev is treacherous and cruel.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 187 
 
 This did I learn from Nasli, the black slave, her 
 favourite attendant. ' ' 
 
 "Mr. Middleton is very rich in his own country 
 — and I am wealthy, too. Stint not for gold, so you 
 but rescue him. Make big promise for it, and It 
 shall be found!" 
 
 "Not a hair of the Frank's head shall be hurt, 
 if I have power to help him," answered Meshow, 
 earnestly. "I sorrow with thee, lady! Meantime, 
 trust in Allah. He is all-powerful! And give mo 
 present opportunity to speak with thee again," 
 
 That night, Cecil lay musing in her little camp- 
 bed in the tent, round which the desert winds were 
 soughing gently. There was a moon, and she could 
 not sleep. She lay in bed and thought, while the 
 moonbeams, stealing in between the tent pegs, kept 
 her company. Turning restlessly upon her pillow, 
 she saw the moonbeams, and got up, and went softly 
 to the tent door. All the vast plain was bathed In 
 light. She gazed out far aAvay across the sand on 
 which shone the silvery haze; for the whole world 
 seemed to sleep in silver. And Cecil clasped her 
 hands together in the silent misery of her reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 "I have truly cared for John," she thought, 
 'althourh I knew it not. And to think that I have
 
 188 MURAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 missed the joj^ of telling him. Ah ! if onlj' I had 
 power to let him know it now ! ' ' 
 
 She was quiet for a little, musing painfull}^ 
 
 "I have always cared for him," she thought 
 again. "But I think that I cared most wiien he 
 told me of his quest in the Great Desert. John is 
 noble-minded and unselfish — there is not his like 
 upon the earth! Ah! where is he now?" 
 
 Sick at heart, she turned her face awa}^ to gaze 
 sorrowfully into the misty distance, silent and de- 
 solate, in silent desolation. And a great dread of 
 the vast desert overwhelmed her soul. 
 
 Early in the morning she was called into her 
 uncle's tent, where she found him with her aunt, and 
 cousin, and Meshow, anxiously discussing the whole 
 situation. 
 
 * ' Cecil, did you hear any sound the night that 
 Middleton disappeared from the encampment?" 
 Dick asked, hurriedly. "My aunt declares to us 
 that you heard some strange noise." 
 
 "I fancied I heard a faint sound, as of scuffling, 
 in the near distance, not far from my tent. But I 
 could not be sure. I thought no more of it till now. 
 Aunt Seraphina thought it might have been the 
 movement of some restless camel." 
 
 "Look!" exclaimed her uncle, with emotion; 
 "this was foimd, half -trampled in the sand, at a
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 189 
 
 short distance from encampment the next mornin;a:. 
 A single link of it had caught Mustafa's eye." 
 
 He held forth to her a portion of a broken 
 •\vatch-ehain, which they recognised as Middle- 
 ton's. 
 
 "I fear lest there be danger," said Meshow. 
 
 "To whom?" exclaimed Miss Seraphina, hastilj\ 
 
 "Unto the Frank. It means death — or per- 
 adventnre slavery ! ' ' 
 
 "No — not killed!" said Mr, Cleveland hur- 
 riedly. "At worst, kept in captivity for a short 
 time till we can ransom him." 
 
 "At best, taken away and sold as a slave to 
 the lOialifa, or to the desert sheikhs," replied Me- 
 show. 
 
 "Oh, no, they surely won't kill Middleton!" 
 cried Dick. "They want money — they will keep 
 him safe enough for ransom, and be sure to let us 
 know." 
 
 "You know well enough how greedy the Arabs 
 are!" exclaimed Miss Seraphina. "They will do 
 anything for money!" 
 
 "A hopeless, cruel slavery will be in store for 
 him, unless he is rescued soon," said Cecil anxi- 
 ously. 
 
 "What is wanted is an Arab, travelling appar- 
 ently on his own business, to search for him, ' ' said
 
 190 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland, thoughtfully. "If it were possible, 
 an Englishman, who could speak Arabic fluentlj^ 
 disguised as an Arab, would be best. But Middleton 
 himself was the only one who could have plaj-ed the 
 part to an}' purpose!" 
 
 "I must depart as soon as possible to seek him," 
 said j\Ieshow. "I but await the arrival of him 
 vdiom I saw before. My messenger hath tarried, 
 lu may be too late, if he be not quickly ransomed 
 with much gold." 
 
 "Tell his captors," Mr. Cleveland said, "that 
 when the}' have delivered him to you, you will put 
 gold in their hands, and give them a sure promise 
 for the rest. I Avill provide you with a portion of 
 the ransom ere you go." 
 
 "Paj'ment by results, for Middleton 's own 
 sake," said Dick. "We must find him first, and 
 promise to pay afterwards, on safe delivery." 
 
 A little later ]\Ieshow came in haste to Cecil, 
 and told her he had heard fresh tidings, that 
 had filled him with alarm for ^Middleton, and with 
 fears for the safety of the women in the caravan. 
 
 "A strong party of the Wandering Bedouins," 
 said Meshow, "are on their way to attack thy cara- 
 van. My uncles having quarrelled, the country will 
 now abound with lawless robbers. The desert tribes 
 will attack and rob each other's villages. I will
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 191 
 
 send thy party on at once, with my own foster- 
 brother, Ghndda, who has come hither with me. His 
 douar thou hast already visited as his father ':•; 
 guest. He will take thee to the Solitary Sheikh, of 
 whom I spoke to thee before, to ask protection, and 
 to send back for the caravan. This is the only way 
 that I can help thee." 
 
 His dark, melancholy eyes spoke his devotion for 
 her. Had Cecil cared to see, his eyes spoke for Me- 
 show the love that she had not divined, and that he 
 might not tell. 
 
 He paused awhile in thought, then added 
 gloomily : — 
 
 "I have discovered, further, verily it was the 
 plot of ]\Iahmoud Bey to capture the Frank. Yet 
 spare his name — do not betray my uncle's name or 
 rank, for Ahmed Bey hath been as an indulgent 
 parent to me since my father hath departed unto 
 Paradise. It would ill become a kinsman to bring 
 ill-fame on one of his own house, and blood, and 
 name — for it would be disgrace to us if it were 
 laiown amongst the Arabs that our near kinsman, 
 one of our house and line, hath in cold blood be- 
 trayed the guest who trusted him, and who ate of 
 our salt, and hath partaken of our Arab hospitality. 
 Mine utmost w^ill I do to find and rescue him — but 
 I impose on thee this sole condition: 0, lady, that
 
 192 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 thou wilt suppress to all my uncle's rank and 
 name!" 
 
 "I promise," answered Cecil, earnestly. 
 
 "Thou art not safe in the caravan," Mesliow 
 presentlj^ resumed, after an instant's rapid thought, 
 "and neither is the other woman safe. I have heard 
 sure tidings of these AA^andering Bedouins, who are 
 coming in large numbers from the borders of the 
 desert of the Great Sudan. Fain would I send thee 
 safely with my foster-brother, Ghudda, to the Soli- 
 tary Sheikh, before I go, to seek protection, and co 
 save thy caravan from being plundered by their 
 threatened raid. Take Ghudda with thee as thy 
 guide and guard; for he is known of the Bedouins. 
 Ask the Sheikh's protection, and he will afford it. 
 But time presses, lady — go at once ! Meantime, I 
 will seek the Frank who hath been forced away, and 
 rescue him for thee." 
 
 "It seems very difficult," said Cecil. 
 
 "Do not lose thy courage, but hope for the best, 
 and trust me," said Meshow. "I mj'self would 
 guide thee and I would send Ghudda on that other 
 quest," he added thoughtfully; "but it is difficult, 
 perhaps impossible, for anyone save me. Therefore, 
 as I have this other quest to follow, will Ghudda 
 guide thee to the tents of the Great Solitary One. 
 Fear not ! For Ghudda knows I would not spare
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 193 
 
 him did anght befall thee. He will answer to me 
 for thy precious safetj^ even with his life. Whilst I 
 lingered here I have sent word to a Bedouin to whom 
 I am well known to find the Frank and meet me 
 later at a well. Hark! the Arabs are returning' 
 with the camels that have been grazing on the desert 
 scrub. They come — I go ! Be thou on watch, and 
 give me opportunity to speak with thee again. Mean- 
 time, be thou silent, lady, and keep thou thine 
 own counsel." 
 
 That afternoon through the opening made by 
 the wall of their tent being partly raised to admit 
 the free draught of cool air, Cecil, who was vainly 
 trying to read, raised her eyes and saw Meshow 
 signalling to her at a little distance from the tent, 
 and she quietly slipped out into the waste to meet 
 him. 
 
 "Go forward to the palms," said the young 
 Arab, quietly; "there will I meet thee presently." 
 
 In a few moments his slight and grac,eful figure 
 was approaching her, and soon he reached her side. 
 He turned to her at once, sajdng quickly: — 
 
 "Thy dromedaries are all good and fresh, and 
 Ghudda will secure them. Take my counsel, and be 
 gone without delay. I Avill give thee timely v>^arn- 
 iug when I have arranged with Ghudda for thy start. 
 Not a word, a warning, to thy kinsfolk till it be time 
 
 M
 
 194 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 to start. If thou -svouldst save them, still keep 
 silence. Onlj^ call them to thee privily, at the last. 
 Keep thy intention secret in thine heart, lest Arab 
 spies suspect. Thy caravan will start this evening 
 to journey further on towards the tents of Alimed 
 Bey. Wlien I give thee this sign, do thou drop 
 something that I may pick up for thee, and cheek 
 thy dromedary, pause, and wait till I come up with 
 thee. Then will I give thee warning when the mo- 
 ment of th}' flight shall be. At the last moment, 
 when thou startest, will I give thee mj' token for the 
 Solitary Sheikh." 
 
 "You think this course of action is the best?" 
 
 "Thou wilt be safe at the douar of the Solitary 
 One, whilst I seek the Frank." 
 
 "Alimed Bey would help us." 
 
 "Ahmed Bey could not spare men to help thee 
 in thy time of danger, his own serious quarrel Avith 
 mine uncle being now in hand." 
 
 Meshow declared that not only were they in the 
 greatest danger, but that all the place around was 
 now unsafe for travellers; and unless they went in 
 silence, he urged that spies might be about, sent on 
 in front by the Bedouins, to act as scouts. He 
 warned her to push on Vv^itli as little delay as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "Wouldst thou save thy party from the danger
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 195 
 
 arising out of this quarrel between the cousin 
 sheikhs, push on at once. Also, the wandering 
 Bedouins are now become a source of real danger 
 even to the Arabs, for Ahmed Bey will be neither 
 willing nor able to afford them help against these 
 fierce alien desert tribes."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Late that afternoon, the caravan being again 
 en route, Meshow, who had been riding with appar- 
 ent carelessness by the side of Ghudda's dromedary, 
 gave the promised sign. As Cecil rode along, she 
 instantl}^ responded. Idly dropping out of the 
 straggling train of camels, she watched her oppor- 
 tunity to drop her book upon the sand. The atten- 
 tive Meshow saw it fall, and moved his mare towards 
 it; and, letting himself down suddenly, head fore- 
 most, picked it up ^Yith. his hand, and then threw 
 himself with slight effort back into his seat instantly. 
 The whole thing was done like lightning. He 
 passed on to Cecil, who had halted, and who now 
 turned back to meet him. As he handed her the 
 book, they had time for a few brief words together. 
 
 "It will be to-night," he uttered briefly; "and 
 Ghudda will be ready with the camels. There will 
 be four good camels near thy tent. Ghudda will 
 see to it. IMarshallah ! They will be the swiftest 
 ones he can procure. Thou wilt not get through 
 unless thou goest at once. The Bedouins will soon 
 be on the road, and they would stop thee as they
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 197 
 
 have stopped many others. Warn thy kinsman at 
 the last, but do not tell the woman, lest she betray . 
 vf with her unruly tongue. Use thine own discre- 
 tion with the Frankish youth." 
 
 "I will be discreet," said Cecil, softly. "As 
 for ray cousin, his love of adventure will easily be 
 enlisted on the side of caution." 
 
 Both of them instantly dropped back again into 
 their accustomed places in the caravan. 
 
 At their next brief halt Cecil noted that Ghudda, 
 who had remounted his swift, highly-bred drome- 
 dary, after it had been watered and allowed to feed 
 awhile, had started forward at a rapid pace. 
 
 "He has gone in the direction of his father's 
 douar, to meet his kinsmen, who Avill bring him 
 dromedaries," Cecil thought. 
 
 Ghudda disappeared from view behind a sand- 
 hill. Cecil was right in her conjecture that his dis- 
 appearance had something to do with what ]\Ieshow 
 had said about the fresh, sv/ift dromedaries. 
 
 At the evening halt she again saw Ghudda, 
 busily engaged in grooming his own dromedary — a 
 beautiful creature, with the slim limbs and finely- 
 turned neck that mark the highest breed. 
 
 ' ' Ghudda has gone to put the nose-ropes on the 
 camels he has chosen for certain of the men," said 
 Meshow, softly approaching her. ' ' Go ye on before,
 
 198 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and leave the caravan to follow a little way behind. 
 Ye may be obliged to leave the greater number of 
 the Arabs behind, if ye should take to flight. Take 
 with ye Selim and Mustafa, and old Ibrahim, if ye 
 be forced to leave the caravan behind, prey to the 
 Bedouins. They will be given the best camels. 
 This may gain ye time, for the Bedouins would stop 
 to plunder the caravan." 
 
 He had spoken rapidly, apparently quietly pass- 
 ing by without remark. 
 
 By-and-bye Cecil saw Ghudda in the dusk, wait- 
 ing silently and patiently under the deep shadow of 
 a palm-tree. Four camels stood unsaddled near him, 
 where they had been tethered. And Cecil under- 
 stood. 
 
 She fixed her eyes on the distant fire of tho 
 Arabs, which was beginning to die down slowly, as 
 the night grew deeper. And there came to her a 
 low murmur of men's voices, deep and hollow as a 
 murmur of the wind. 
 
 That night she seized an opportunity for having 
 a few private words apart with Mr. Cleveland, and 
 he then prepared Miss Seraphina Avith great caution 
 for their start bj^ night. Ghudda had already ar- 
 ranged the matter with the chosen Arabs. 
 
 The signal Meshow had agreed on being given, 
 they passed quietly one by one from their tents into
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 199 
 
 the darkness, leaving the majoritj' of the men to 
 quietly pack, and rearrange the caravan. And they 
 came, meantime, to the spot behind a sandhill, that. 
 Meshow had agreed upon with Cecil. 
 
 "Thou mayest trust this man, lady," said 
 Meshow, introducing Ghudda. "3ily foster-brother 
 will be true to ye, at peril of his life. Ghudda rides 
 before ye save in time of danger. Then wilt thou 
 find him ready at thy side. We have here four 
 swift dromedaries waiting for ye." 
 
 "These dromedaries are the swiftest I could pro- 
 cure, O my brother," said Ghudda. "The women 
 can travel swiftly with these stirrups, made of rope." 
 
 "Can you not come with us 3'ourself ?" asked 
 Mr. Cleveland, of Meshow. 
 
 "Nay; now must I depart at once to seek the 
 Frank, for whom I fear the worst. I have but tar- 
 ried here till I could send my messenger to one I 
 know amongst the Wandering Bedouins, to bid him 
 find the Prank for me." 
 
 Meshow now offered Cecil a curious ring of gold, 
 engraved Avith Arabic characters, that he had shown 
 her once before. 
 
 "This is my token for the Solitary Sheikh," he 
 said. "Look, O lady, that ye lose it not, but keep it 
 safely. I once did the Solitary One some signal ser- 
 vice in the desert, and he gave me then this token.
 
 200 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and bade me claim return. 'When thou, or thy 
 messenger,' he said, 'shalt shovr me this again, ask 
 what thou wilt of me, and thy desire shall be 
 granted thee.' Depart at once. Haste! ye 
 Franks. Leave the caravan a little way behind to 
 follow ye — thou wilt be fairly safe v>'ith Ghudda, 
 who is known of the Bedouins. But here thou 
 may est be killed, or captured. Delay no longer, 
 therefore, but go now." 
 
 In the silence of the start, the dromedaries 
 kneeling, their gracefully poised heads turning Id 
 right and left in the dim light, IMeshow came close 
 to Cecil to help her mount. 
 
 Then Cecil tried to speak, to utter her warm 
 thanks. 
 
 "Thou hast trusted me, lady — it is enough — 
 I will not fail thee, ' ' Meshow answered gravely. ' ' In 
 the desert, wherever I ma}'' be, remember I am at 
 thy service." 
 
 "It were well," said Ghudda softlj^, "that we 
 start. As Allah wills it, the night is dark; and it 
 will not be moon for some hours yet." 
 
 When they were all seated on their saddles, the 
 dromedaries rose. They rode cautiously at first, 
 but when the moon rose to the full they increased 
 their pace, going as fast as they could without fear 
 of leaving the rest of the caravan too far behind.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 201 
 
 MeshoAv went part of the way with them, but, 
 being met by his messenger, he fell behind with him, 
 with a brief word of parting, and was soon lost 
 sight of in the night. By-and-bye they halted; the 
 rest of the caravan came np with them; they rested 
 for a little while, and then went on. 
 
 At daybreak they were riding in the middle of 
 some low hills, and, as Cecil's dromedary reached the 
 summit, and stood on one of these, a flying figure 
 came out from behind the distant slopes and went 
 along the desert at a few hundred yards' distance — 
 an Arab riding a fleet dromedary. For about half 
 a mile the way lay in sight, and over that short 
 space the dromedarj^ passed at an incredibly swift 
 pace. It more than equalled that of the swiftest 
 racehorse. He vras evidently put to his best speed. 
 Suddenly, in the grey morning light, this single 
 figure had dashed out from behind a sand-hill into 
 sight, and in a few seconds it was gone again, dis- 
 appearing round a swell of the waste. And Cecil 
 knew Meshow was passing — departing on his quest 
 in search of Middleton. The solitude of the desert 
 then seemed even greater to her than before. 
 
 That day it was considerably after sundown, and 
 very dark, and they had not arrived yet at their 
 camping-place. There was a strong, heaving wind, 
 and they had considerable difficulty in keeping their
 
 202 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 cloaks around them. It was so dark that, unless 
 they kept close, they could not see each other's faces. 
 Though their men were near, they could not hear 
 their voices when they called. The sand was blown 
 on the wind, and sudden, total darkness fell, the 
 sand covering them in like a black pall. They now 
 heard faint sounds of the calling voices of the Arabs 
 borne on the fitful gusts of wind, and they strove in 
 vain to come up with their companions, for they 
 had evidently strayed from the track. 
 
 The fitful, calling voices had grown fainter, till 
 at last they died awaj^ and the distressed little party 
 halted in despair. After trying vainly- to retrace 
 their steps, they gave up the attempt, until the 
 violence of the storm should lessen. 
 
 At last the storm was over, and they threw back 
 the hoods which had been drawn over their heads. 
 
 Cecil was now aware that they had lost their 
 companions, and that she and Dick were alone witii 
 Ghudda on the waste, amongst the sandhills. The 
 moon was struggling through the remaining riits 
 of clouds. 
 
 "We must hurry on alone Avith Ghudda now," 
 said Cecil in dismaj'. "There is no help for it. If 
 we arrive safelj' at our destination we will send back 
 for the others as soon as possible, from the douar of 
 the Solitary Sheikh."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 203: 
 
 ' ' Let us look for the caravan, ' ' Dick urged hur- 
 riedly. "M3' heart misgives me, Cecil, for your 
 sake. Let us search for the caravan while yet we 
 may. We are safe there — but alone on the waste 
 we may be attacked and killed — or captured — which 
 v/ould be worse. Besides, we don't know Ghudda."" 
 
 He shuddered involuntarily as he thought of 
 Cecil's possible fate if the wild Bedouins should 
 come. 
 
 "Let us return to the caravan whilst there's 
 time ! " he urged again. 
 
 "Meshow promised me that Ghudda would pro- 
 tect us even with his life," said Cecil. "I have 
 faith in him. And we go to save my aunt and uncle, 
 and the caravan. For their sake and our own, we 
 must press onward now ! ' ' 
 
 "What will happen to us, should this Ghudda 
 betray Meshow's trust?" 
 
 "Not for a moment could I mistrust him," an- 
 swered Cecil. ' ' Whatever happens, and whatever he 
 may be, Meshow has ideas of hospitality — the greatest 
 virtue Arabs possess. This, as well as Ghudda 's 
 pledged faith to his foster-brother and his chief, 
 Avill be the greatest possible safeguard we could have 
 upon the desert. And it would render impossible 
 any treachery to us on Ghudda 's part. Besides, we 
 have been the guests of his own douar. I feel that
 
 204 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 there are chivalry and honour in the man." 
 
 Ghudda had now guided his dromedary close to 
 them. 
 
 "Dost fear, O woman?" asked Ghudda, harshly. 
 
 His full, red lips curled in momentary, half- 
 stern, half-pitying contempt. Cecil little knew how 
 much depended on her courage then, and, for the 
 moment, on her strength of mind and power of nerve. 
 
 "Nay, we fear not!" she answered proudly, in 
 her best Arabic. And her voice rang clearly out. 
 
 "Marshallah! Good!" 
 
 Ghudda uttered something further in a gutteral 
 undertone. His wild, dark eyes were flashing with 
 approval. The savage element in this strange 
 youth was fairly roused. Then he turned silently, 
 and they went on again. 
 
 Mile after mile they sped onwards, the cousins 
 clinging to the pommels of their saddles. 
 
 When the moon was setting they dismounted for 
 n rest, and Ghudda tethered the dromedaries, that 
 they might not stray. At dawn they had a hurried 
 breakfast from some stores he had, and then went on 
 again. 
 
 "This morning we come to a well — very little 
 rest — then forward!" Ghudda said. 
 
 The way lay over an immense plain, flat and 
 stony. Not a living being besides themselves was
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 205 
 
 moviug on all the surface of this plain, which before 
 and behind seemed to stretch away into boundless 
 space. 
 
 "Oh, this endless, pathless, stony desert!" mur- 
 mured Dick, disheartened. 
 
 " 'Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like 
 the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious 
 jewel in its head.' As witnessed by this Ghudda's 
 true devotion to us," he commented finally, to Cecil, 
 striving to speak in his usual bright fashion. 
 
 lie began to whistle softly, to keep his spirits 
 up, though he still glanced anxiously at the grave 
 countenance of the weary girl who rode so patiently 
 beside him. 
 
 Now and then a stray Bedouin of the desert met 
 and eyed them, staring hard at the veiled woman 
 on her dromedary, for Cecil closely veiled herelf at 
 their approach. But Ghudda invariably made a sign 
 they seemed to recognise, accept, and understand, 
 and they vv^ere not molested. 
 
 By-and-bye they approached a halting caravan 
 beside a Avell. Ghudda stopped, and saluted the 
 Arabs here. 
 
 "Salaama! Peace be with thee!" 
 
 They replied with a civil Arab salutation. They 
 then courteously inquired of each other their re- 
 spective businesses and route.
 
 206 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "I seek the Solitary Sheikh," said Ghudda. 
 
 At his name the men respectfully made way for 
 him, inviting him to rest beside the well. All three 
 dismounted, and Cecil sat, still carefully veiled, apart 
 with Dick. 
 
 "Say, O my brother, wilt guide us to the Solitary 
 Sheikh, if thou knowest his whereabouts?" asked 
 Ghudda of an Arab, "if he be now absent from his 
 douar. ' ' 
 
 "I will do so, O my brother. I am ready to go 
 with thee when thou wilt. But we think he is now 
 at his own douar." 
 
 "Nevertheless, wilt journey with us for a little 
 space ? I am acquainted with the v^-ay ; but it would 
 be well that we should travel v/ith a stronger party." 
 
 The Arabs, assenting, went with them a little dis- 
 tance on their way. About noon next day they were 
 met by a new escort, going the same way, and they 
 said good-bye to the old one. Afterwards, their 
 ways parted, and thej'^ separated. 
 
 Later on thej" halted for necessary rest beside 
 some thorn trees. 
 
 "See these men on camels coming out from the 
 sand hills!" Dick exclaimed. 
 
 They saw a long string of armed Arabs in peaked 
 caps. A grey hue came suddenly on Ghudda 's full
 
 ]^IIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 207 
 
 red lips, and he glanced nneasib' at Cecil. She 
 saw the look, and, understanding it, she and her 
 cousin entwined their arms and clung together for an 
 instant. Then they all three hastily remounted. 
 
 The straggling company of fierce-looking Arabs 
 were riding towards them, pointing spears at them. 
 They spoke a few brief words amongst themselves, 
 and then asked the travellers where they were going. 
 
 Cecil felt uneasy as the svrarthy, keen-eyed 
 Arabs crowded near. All had a daring and hard 
 look ; the faces of the strangers were fierce and wild, 
 and most forbidding in expression as they boldly 
 •eyed the woman. 
 
 "Whence comest thou?" 
 
 "From the tents of Alimed Bey. "Where art 
 thou from, strangers?" asked Ghudda in return. 
 
 "From a journey in the desert to another tribe, 
 to fetch this horse of noble breed." 
 
 "Of what tribe art thou?" 
 
 "We are Bedouins — but we own the Solitary 
 SheikhasChief of all." 
 
 "T\liat is thy business?" 
 
 "We are taking this horse to the Solitary Sheikh 
 for his own use. We have come from afar, bring- 
 ing this gift," 
 
 "Is there peace upon the desert?"
 
 208 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "There has lately been some quarrel between 
 two sheikhs, but it is over." 
 
 "We, too, seek the Great Solitary One, to whom 
 we carry tidings," Gliudda said. " Marshallah ! 
 Thou knowest well the power of the most noble 
 Solitary Sheikh, and in his name we crave permis- 
 sion to depart in peace upon our journe}^" 
 
 The Sheikh's name instantly arrested their at- 
 tention. 
 
 "Y 'Allah! We also are on our way to speak 
 with him, and we will accompany thee thither." 
 
 They looked closely at the Frank youth, and 
 the veiled Frank woman on their dromedaries, but 
 did not molest them. The calmness Vv'ith which 
 Cecil had faced the menace of real danger had won 
 the admiration of these dusky savages. They stood 
 aside out of the way to let them pass, and all fell 
 into place in a long file behind. 
 
 By-and-bye there was a sudden change in 
 scenery. Instead of the sterile solitudes of the 
 great desert, they came upon fertile tracts, where 
 bleating goats and sheep were pasturing, and some 
 gay brown Arab children wore sporting on fresh, 
 green grass. On arrival at the douar they were 
 taken to the presence of the Solitary Sheikh, in his 
 own house.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 209 
 
 The Sheikh was sitting on a rare and beautiful 
 old praying-carpet. His clothing was all white, and 
 he wore a white turban on his brow, over which the 
 soft folds of his silk haik fell gracefully. He had 
 apparently not seen or heard their entrance. For 
 a few moments he remained absorbed in reverie, and 
 did not move his eyes from the ancient vellum 
 manuscript he held. 
 
 He raised his eyes at last, as they stood silently 
 before him. Then their guide addressed him with 
 exceeding reverence. 
 
 * ' Sidi, may the grace of Allah be with thee ! I 
 bring to thy presence strangers who would speak 
 with thee. Deign, favoured of Allah, to hearken 
 unto them!" 
 
 Then Ghudda said :^ 
 
 "0 Sidi, Solitary One, may the grace of Allab 
 rest upon thee — and Allah's smile! That the light 
 of thy countenance may shine upon me when I make 
 petition." 
 
 As he paused, the Solitary Sheikh briefly signed 
 him to proceed. 
 
 "I ask protection, O Great Solitary One," said 
 Ghudda, ''for this woman, who hath a certain token 
 for thy acceptance." 
 
 Here he made a sign, and Cecil, in response, pre- 
 
 N
 
 210 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 scnted the Sheikh at once with Meshow's token. He 
 received it gravely as he heard the message. 
 
 "Thou art welcome, O strangers," said the 
 Sheikh. "I have heard of thee already — all that 
 thou requirest ask for, and it shall be given thee — 
 all that I have is thine." 
 
 Then again he drooped his head above his manu- 
 script, and he heard Ghudda further with downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 "I also seek protection, O Great Solitary One," 
 said Ghudda, ' ' for the kinsfolk of this woman, who 
 are lost on the waste, and who else may be a prey to 
 the Bedouins, and I ask protection for their cara- 
 van, which is in danger of a lawless raid from the 
 Bedouins of the desert, and which is halted a day's 
 journey from this place. Wherefore, I journeyed 
 hither, bringing this woman, with the token from my 
 chief Meshow, who was in favour with thee. And, 
 further, this woman asks thine aid to find a Frank 
 of their own party, who hath been captured lately — 
 stolen thence — to deliver him from threatened 
 slavery amongst the Arabs of the desert." 
 
 "What is the Frank's name, O stranger?" 
 "His name is Middleton, Sidi, in his own 
 country." 
 
 "Marshallah!"
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 211 
 
 The grave Arab started violently, suddenly 
 lifted up his head, raised his eyes to Cecil's face, 
 and looked full at her. The large grey eyes in the 
 Sheikh's dark face met the astonished girl's. 
 
 But he as suddenly controlled himself. Shock, or 
 surprise — whatever it might be — ^his eyes drooped as 
 before ; yet a certain nervous twitching in the 
 brown, slender fingers that held the manuscript be- 
 trayed to her his feelings of a strange, strong in- 
 terest. 
 
 ''He shall be sought at once! The caravan 
 shall be sent for. I accord this woman and this 
 youth here my protection." 
 
 The Sheikh then gave his orders to some atten- 
 dants in Arabic. 
 
 ''Have they captured the Englishman for ran- 
 som, or for slavery — or perchance for torture and 
 revenge?" 
 
 "Nay, Sidi, not for ransom, else demand for 
 ransom had been made ere now," said Ghudda. 
 
 Then they were taken away, and all three cared 
 for, and accommodated in some other tents apart. 
 
 Meantime, the Solitary Sheikh passed on alone 
 amongst the solitudes of the unconfined and 
 pathless desert, to the silence that he loved in the 
 great wilderness beyond. These solitudes and
 
 212 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 deep unbroken silence were his chief solace in mo- 
 ments of untold keen suffering that sometimes came 
 to him. At such times the presence of any living 
 being would have been a torment and a source of 
 even greater pain to him.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Meantime, Avheu the storm had cleared, at the 
 caravan they had missed Cecil and her cousin. 
 
 "Inshallah— ya Sitt!" the alarmed Mustafa 
 cried. "And the young master — both of them have 
 vanished from the caravan. And Ghudda is gone 
 too. Abbaseh saw him last." 
 
 "The young master and the Sitt must be with 
 him. And the Bedouins may capture the woman 
 in the desert," Selim said. 
 
 "Mafeesch!" exclaimed Ibrahim; "the woman 
 will not come to any hurt — she will be placed in the 
 harem of a Sheikh!" 
 
 "You have the Eastern way of looking at these 
 matters!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, in despair. 
 "This is Job's comfort, trulj^ — and verily art thoa 
 Job's Comforter!" he added bitterly, with fresh 
 perturbation. "I lose all I value most in life if I 
 lose my only son, and my dear niece!" 
 
 Miss Seraphina's knowledge of Arabic was but 
 
 scanty, and she did not possess much knoAvledge of 
 the Arab character; but her wits were sharpened 
 by anxietj^ and she had somehow caught the drift 
 of Ibrahim's vrords.
 
 214 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "What did he say?" she exclaimed distract- 
 edly. "I canuot quite follow him." 
 
 Her brother hurriedlj^ explained to her. 
 
 "I would far rather that my niece was killed!" 
 exclaimed Miss Seraphina, breaking down and weep- 
 ing bitterly. 
 
 The Arabs pitched the tents, and they discon- 
 solately camped there for the night. 
 
 As the first, cold, grey glimmering of Eastern 
 dawn appeared in the sky, their own grieved and 
 haggard faces shocked each other's sight. All, from 
 Ibrahim and Mustafa doAvnwards, were despairing, 
 and most of the men sat gloomily down, dispirited 
 and sad. 
 
 "As usual with Orientals," said Mr. Cleveland 
 angrily to his half-sister. "Easily disheartened by 
 mischance." 
 
 The Arabs already' looked on the matter as hope- 
 less, and went about their preparations for depart- 
 ing for the search quite listlessly, and without heart. 
 Mr. Cleveland's anxious eyes turned from one 
 gloomy face to another in dismay. Even Ibrahim 
 appeared sullen. 
 
 In his halting Arabic he spoke to them. 
 
 "Help me now, and I will pay you well." 
 
 Not an Arab stirred at his appeal. They all 
 looked on him with sullen, gloomy faces.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 215 
 
 Mr. Cleveland hurriedly sought his half-sister, 
 ■whom he found sitting disconsolately on an Eastern 
 carpet in a corner of the tent she had so lately shared 
 ■with Cecil. 
 
 ''Even the careless and light-hearted Selim is 
 gloomy and silent no"w, and only shakes his head 
 sullenly if I ask him to ■work, ' ' complained the help- 
 less Mr. Cleveland, bitterlJ^ "Oh! ho^w greatly I 
 ■H^ish Middleton ■were here." 
 
 "Brother! We must find our poor, dear Dick 
 and Cecil — only think of it! Lost some"where on 
 this limitless ■waste of unfeeling and insensate sand 
 and stone. Only countless miles and miles of 
 dreary desert. And you are so slo^w!" 
 
 She shuddered, and fresh tears came to her re- 
 lief. 
 
 "Good heavens, Seraphina! Do not make my 
 tribulation greater than it is. I am quite as anxious 
 tc find my son and niece as you can be!" Mr. Cleve- 
 land interposed impatiently. "Why accuse me, 
 then, of being slo^w in preparation for our search? 
 We have no clue on this roadless ■waste, and I kno^w 
 not where to go!" 
 
 Miss Seraphina sat up instantly, and ■uTung her 
 hands at him. 
 
 "It is like leaning on a broken reed, to lean 
 on you! What is life, after all?" she moaned; and
 
 216 MIRxVGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 then resumed her hopeless sobbing, and her rocking 
 to and fro, almost driving j\Ir. Cleveland mad. 
 
 After some deep cogitation he ordered the tents 
 to be sti'uck, and preparations for departure to be 
 made instantly. Something in his tone caused the 
 Arabs to rise now with alacrity, and to obey. 
 
 The caravan was nearly ready to start when 
 Mustafa, with a grave countenance, entered the tent. 
 
 The Arabs are all sitting round the fire drink- 
 ing coffee, my master. They are not making pre- 
 parations for the journey." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Cleveland, 
 hastily. "Are they not loading the camels?" 
 
 "0 master, when I sought Ibrahim, he saith 
 he and his men will not desert the Sitt. The men 
 refuse the journey^they refuse to travel further 
 till the young Sitt be found. The old Sitt still 
 weepeth loudly for her in her tent." 
 
 "Fools! We go to find her! Tell the Arabs 
 we go on our way to seek the Sitt and the young 
 niaster even now ! We go back to the tents of Ah- 
 med Bey to ask his help and counsel, as we had pur- 
 posed doing for Mr. Middleton." 
 
 "Inshallah! I know nothing of the matter. 
 Master had better tell the Arabs so himself." 
 
 On going out again, Mr. Cleveland found, in- 
 stead of the usual bustle before starting, that a
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 217 
 
 dead silence reigned. All the Arabs were sitting 
 by their conehant camels in a gronp. Not a man 
 moved at his approach. But he harangued them 
 again in a brief, curt speech in his bad Arabic, and 
 ere long there was the usual stir and bustle of de- 
 parture ; the quickened movement was renewed 
 around them, and enterprise was again in front. 
 
 "I told them it was not sullenness, nor curses 
 and abuse that we required, but the tents struck 
 and the camels loaded," Mr. Cleveland explained to 
 ]\[iss Seraphina. "Appeal to his feelings by the 
 usual complimentary epithets of pig and dog, and 
 the Arab will give in to any extent ! ' ' 
 
 "Wliere is Ali?" Mr. Cleveland asked, as they 
 prepared to start. 
 
 They all now missed his presence from the 
 caravan, and wondered. Till one of the Arabs re- 
 membered that early in the morning he had seen 
 Ali go to tend and feed three camels, and he had 
 tethered them apart from the rest and near to his 
 own tent. Since when he had not been seen. And 
 the camels, too, were gone. 
 
 "Mafeesch! The treacherous one ! He hath gone 
 upon some private business of his own," said Ibra- 
 him. 
 
 And Mustafa called down maledictions on the 
 absent All's head; desiring that Allah would send
 
 218 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 great troubles upon his relatives — entreating evil 
 to the aged grandmother of Ali, and to all his de- 
 funct family. 
 
 "May his great grandfather and great grand- 
 mother receive the curse of Allah," said Mustafa. 
 "Where hath he taken them?" 
 
 "Perhaps he has gone alone to seek the lost 
 ones," suggested Mr. Cleveland, thoughtfully. 
 
 All that day they journeyed, with but a brief 
 interval for rest. In the evening a long stretch of 
 pale light from East to West on the horizon showed 
 up a dark mass in their front, which Ibrahim told 
 them was their destination for the night. Fre- 
 quent flashes of lightning indicated that there was 
 a thunderstorm at hand in the distance. The ground 
 was rough and broken, and hidden in the general 
 gloom. They arrived at a poor Arab douar just 
 as the storm began. 
 
 Next day they passed a small caravan loitering 
 beside a well, and asked if an English boy and 
 woman, and an Arab, mounted on dromedaries, had 
 passed that way. The leaders of the caravan re- 
 plied that they had seen them pass some time be- 
 fore, and had spoken to the Arab when they had 
 stopped, for a short rest, to water their dromedaries 
 and to fill their water-skins. 
 
 ' ' By this time they must be far upon their way.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 219 
 
 for they departed very swiftly on fleet dro- 
 medaries." 
 
 "In what direction did they go?" 
 
 "They went towards the East." 
 
 Mr. Cleveland's party left the well and jour- 
 neyed on in silence, and with heavy hearts. After 
 some weary hours had passed, the old sheikh, Ibra- 
 him, who was in front as usual, hurried back toward 
 them, and sharp word was sent to the rear. In a 
 few moments five or six Arabs ran up from behind, 
 and after a few words with him they all pressed 
 forward. There was great excitement, and much 
 low and earnest talking amongst the rest of the 
 party. 
 
 "What is it all about?" asked Mr. Cleveland, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Nukb — Amusba," said the old chief briefly^ 
 pointing forward. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland and Miss Seraphina strained 
 their unaccustomed eyes in vain. They only saw 
 the wide w-aste, still and silent in the morning sun. 
 
 "Nukb — Amusba — people coming," Ibrahim 
 repeated impatiently. 
 
 By degrees they made out figures which the 
 old sheikh, with his keen Arab eyes, had soon de- 
 tected in the distance. 
 
 "-Bedouins," said Ibrahim, in Arabic. "War-
 
 220 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 like and fierce, and well armed — devils to ride — de~ 
 spoil and plunder travellers." 
 
 There was great perturbation amongst the 
 Arabs of his party. 
 
 "Merciful Allah! We shall not get through," 
 they said. 
 
 "The Bedouins will plunder our caravan as 
 they have plundered others ! ' ' 
 
 The Wandering Bedouins rapidly approached. 
 
 "I am Ibrahim, and belong to a tribe in the 
 Sahara," shouted the old chief. "Who are ye?" 
 
 "We are Wandering Bedouins — our tents at 
 present are towards Sudan." 
 
 "Yv'hence come ye?" 
 
 "From a raid in the desert — we are going back 
 to our tents. Where art thou coming from? What 
 is thy business?" 
 
 "Marshallah! We are travelling in peace over 
 the desert — let us pass in peace." 
 
 An Arab was now seen galloping up to them. 
 As he came near they recognised him as the sheikh 
 Douhi, who had proposed to wed Miss Seraphiua. 
 At a sign from their leader the Bedouins fell sud- 
 denly upon the party, and made them prisoners. 
 Miss Seraphina, in resistance, was mishandled, to 
 her great alarm. 
 
 "The old man will make good slave," said s.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 221 
 
 Bedouin; "he is still strong and able-bodied, though 
 no longer young. The woman is not young or hand- 
 some for the harem, but she can work." 
 
 So absorbed were the Bedouins in contempla- 
 tion of their prisoners and their spoil that they did 
 not notice some approaching camels and horsemen 
 coming towards them at great speed from behind 
 the sand-hills. The camels now swept super- 
 ciliously up. 
 
 This party was the one sent by the Solitary 
 Sheikh, Avith his own black slave to seek them and 
 be their escort and passport and safe-conduct 
 through the desert to his douar. The Bedouins re- 
 sisted, clinging to their prey, and poor Miss Sera- 
 phina, much mishandled, screamed aloud. 
 
 Then the white-robed figure of an Arab sheikh 
 appeared like magic, riding a white horse — and 
 with uplifted hand he stopped their way. 
 
 "In the name of Allah! The All- wise, the All- 
 powerful, the All-merciful! Release this woman!" 
 
 The rest of the camel-men came up Avith them. 
 The Solitary Sheikh, with a few curt, greatly- 
 accented words in Arabic, dismissed the Bedouins, 
 who, with crest-fallen looks, now owned his sway,, 
 and sent the English party forward to his village, 
 under the guidance of his special trusty slave and a 
 few Arabs as their escort. And the dispersed Be-
 
 222 jMIRAGE of THE DESERT. 
 
 douins, disappointed of their booty, galloped off in 
 clouds of dust, their diabolic horsemanship and 
 magnificent steeds exciting the admiration of their 
 late prisoners.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A little time had passed since MeshoAV had de- 
 parted in search of Middleton, when, in the light 
 of the setting sun, appeared far away upon the 
 desert wastes one solitary- Arab riding a very weary 
 dromedarj^ On that vast plain, from the horizon 
 of which Meshow emerged, no other object was in 
 sight. He alighted at a well, watered his dro- 
 medary, washed his hands and face, said his prayers, 
 then seated himself on the short green sward and 
 prepared to eat, while behind him grazed his 
 dromedary. He appeared to be expecting to meet 
 someone here, for his eyes kept wandering from 
 left to right, and he frequently gazed long into the 
 distance. 
 
 A growing speck on the horizon proved to be 
 another Arab, riding a dromedary and leading a 
 mare; a tall, swarthy Bedouin. He wore a long 
 beard, and his face was much tanned by the sun. 
 This traveller rode also to the well, saluted Meshow, 
 tethered his horse and dromedary' where they could 
 graze, looked his horse Avell over, and took his 
 supper from his saddle. IMeshow observed him 
 closely as they sat beside each other on the turf.
 
 224 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Art thou he whom Abbaseh hath sent to meet 
 me? I sent word before I started on ray journey 
 hither for Mohammed Beshara to meet me at this 
 well. Is it thou, O brother of kindness? I once 
 fell in with thee in other days," he said. 
 
 ''Yea. In other days was I acquainted with 
 thee, and Abbasseh sent me hither," answered the 
 Bedouin. "Where art thou travelling?" 
 
 "Merciful Allah! I travel not for pleasure. I 
 seek a Frank, O Beshara, one of that tribe of the 
 Franks that is called the English, who hath been 
 seized by AVandering Bedouins of thy tribe." 
 
 "I fell in lately with the son of the sheikh of 
 the Bedouins, with whom he was at first," responded 
 his companion, "He belongeth to another douar. I 
 have been absent from my douar upon a journey — 
 and am now on my way back to my own tents. I 
 met him as I tell thee, and he gave me greeting as 
 I came up with him, and told me of the Frank. He 
 also said that he had met with men from the Sudan, 
 to bargain with them for his father concerning the 
 delivery of the Frank into their hands, to be taken 
 to Timbuctoo. They may go upon their way to- 
 morrow evening to their own tents, and he with 
 them. Peradventure they are already far upon 
 their way."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 223 
 
 "It is the Frank!" exclaimed Meshow. Blest 
 are thy tidings. Praise to Allah ! Of a surety it is 
 he whom I seek." 
 
 "Afterwards I met with these Bedouins on my 
 journey hither, and they passed me with the Frank 
 tied on the saddle on a white camel's back." 
 
 "Where do thej' belong?" inquired Meshow. 
 
 "They belong to the desert near Timbuctoo. A 
 man born at Timbuctoo took him away by night, 
 and bore him away into the darkness of the dunes 
 towards the South, and the tents of his own people. 
 He is now a desert man. I know his tribe; but be- 
 fore he settled there he was a nomad, one of the 
 perpetual wanderers of the desert, who dwell in 
 tents. On the journey thither, on every side upoji 
 the v\"ay, there are immense white dunes of sand, like 
 mountains, and the ground is often white with the 
 saltpetre. The Frank will presently be taken into 
 the Wilderness, to the uttermost parts of the 
 Southern desert." 
 
 "Where is he now, Beshara?" 
 
 "He is with a Bedouin tribe. They belong to 
 a douar on the very borders of the Sudan desert. 
 But they will keep him captive for a little while 
 at another douar, if they go not to-night — a night 
 and a day's march from here. He will soon be in 
 captivity la a brown earth house in the Sahara." 
 
 o
 
 226 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "As thy knowledge goeth, have they captured 
 him for slavery, for ransom, or perchance for ven- 
 geance ? ' ' 
 
 "Nay, O my brother, not for ransom. That 
 hath been forbidden. One had come to them, and 
 said: 'This man hath robbed me of a woman's love 
 — and therefore do I seek revenge on him. Take 
 him away with thee to sell him at Timbuctoo for a 
 slave. Keep then the gold he brings, and for this 
 service to me I will pay thee well beside. And 
 may this thy service be accounted to thee for right- 
 eousness." 
 
 "How camest thou to meet this man born at 
 Timbuctoo?" 
 
 "I was travelling in the Sahara desert on the 
 great caravan route vv^hich endeth at Timbuctoo, and 
 I was resting by a well where I had spent the night, 
 when the snarl of camels on the road I had come 
 told me that a caravan was coming up and passing 
 towards the South. When they got to the well, 
 they v/atered the camels there, and I had word with 
 the sheikh, and afterwards with the man born at 
 Timbuctoo. All this did I learn for thee when I 
 received thy message. Thereupon I went back 
 
 again unto the sheikh, whom I found by the well, 
 still resting by the way." 
 
 "At one time thou saidst tliat thou desired to
 
 jMIRAGE of the desert. 227 
 
 repay my ancient service to thy daugliter," said 
 Meshow. 
 
 "Verily thou didst me signal service," answered 
 the Bedouin, "and I have not forgotten." 
 
 "Then let the stranger pay a ransom and re- 
 turn to his own people," said ]\Ieshow. 
 
 "He is but an Infidel — dog of a Christian — 
 then let him remain to toil in the Sudan, and be slave 
 to Moslem masters — those of the true faith!" 
 
 Beshara spoke with something of the fire of 
 fanaticism kindling in his brooding eyes. 
 
 "Nay, let him pay a ransom and go free. What 
 matters his religion to the faithful, if he leave the 
 country. Merciful Allah ! Hath he j'et been 
 maimed or tortured by the Bedouins?" added Me- 
 show, quickl3^ 
 
 For a moment there was almost a fanatical ex- 
 pression in Beshara 's face. 
 
 "Nav — that would destrov his market value. 
 Then would he be unfit for slavery. Not a hair of 
 the Frank's head hath yet been hurt." 
 
 "I did thee service once, O my brother. Wilt 
 thou hearken to my words?" 
 
 An eager look came into the man's face. 
 
 "Marshallah! I have travelled not for pastime — 
 I have travelled hither on thy business."
 
 228 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ''Very kind hast thoii been to me in this time of: 
 trouble," said Meshow. 
 
 "Allah is just. I hearken. Thou knowest well 
 T am not one to show ingratitude. Thou didst save 
 my little daughter when she had been seized by 
 hostile Arabs in their raid upon my douar. I vowed 
 then I would repay thee for the service, should 
 destiny atYord me fitting opportunity. I go not 
 back upon my spoken word." 
 
 Meshow saw that the face of his companion 
 was altered ; as though he were struggling with con- 
 flicting feelings. Mingled gratitude and fanaticism 
 smouldered in his eyes. 
 
 "Now can'st thou keep thy pledge," urged 
 Meshow, in reply. "And I will teach thee how. 
 rrherefore, do thou go to the douar of the Bedouins 
 and say to them: — 'Take the captive Frank not to 
 Timbuctoo — for there are those who claim him. 
 Deliver him to me — thou shalt be rich. He hath 
 greatness in his own land. In his own country is 
 he great. There he hath abundance and to spare 
 of gifts and Avealth, and his riches fail not — they 
 are very great ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' I have no money, O Meshow. If they will not 
 consent?" 
 
 Meshow looked eagerly away towards the
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 229 
 
 South. In all his movemeuts there was now a flame- 
 like intensity. 
 
 "Then privily agree with one of them, for a 
 reward, to deliver him into my hands by night, out- 
 side the donar where he is kept prisoner. Offer 
 him some portion of the ransom, and give him pre- 
 sent promise for the rest. Lo, here is gold." 
 
 Beshara's fingers closed reluctantly upon the 
 money ; but still his face was full of thought. 
 
 "If they suspect I took the Frank away from 
 them by stealth, then, how may I appease their 
 wrath Avhen it shall be known afterwards he hatii 
 escaped?" 
 
 "Nay, then, say naught of it to any of the 
 tribe. It i^ unwise to incense the powerful if thy 
 sympathy lies with the helpless. I will remain a 
 little way behind thee on the desert — when thou 
 hast left me behind a little time, I will follow slowly 
 h: thy track unto the douar on the borders of the 
 Sudan desert. And thou wilt aid me privily after- 
 wards. Thy compact with me must be made beforo 
 we leave this well." 
 
 "Yea. I will put him in thy hands if thou wilt 
 come with me. Freedom for freedom — liberty for 
 liberty. I will free for thee the Frank, even as thou 
 didst deliver my little one for me. Tarry behind
 
 230 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 me a little space, as thou hast said, and then come 
 after me." 
 
 "My dromedary is almost spent. See! he lietd 
 novr "with his long neck upon the ground — which, as 
 thou knowest, is the last symptom of fatigue. Even 
 after rest, he could not keep up with thy drome- 
 dary." • 
 
 "Take my dromedary, and I will ride the mare. 
 Take my camel in exchange for thine, and leave 
 the other here, and I will send for him. He will re- 
 cover in a little while. He hath food and water 
 here. A few hours' rest will restore to him his 
 former vigour. The camel that I offer thee is strong 
 and swift. There is scarce one that can keep up 
 with him when he goes at his best. But we must 
 haste ! To go there one must take the route that 
 the Bedouins call the shortest route to Timbuctoo. 
 Hopeless slavery will be in store for the Frank if he 
 be not rescued soon." 
 
 "May Allah reward thee! Ver}^ kind hast thou 
 been to me in this time of trouble. I will keep 
 faith with thee. See that thou keepest faith with 
 me," replied Meshow. 
 
 They rested for a portion of the night. Then 
 the Bedouin seized the camel's nose-ring, and or- 
 dered him to kneel, that Meshow might mount. 
 Beshara sprang upon his horse and rode away, and
 
 . MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 231 
 
 ]\leshow commanded the camel on vdiich he was 
 seated to rise, and, pulling at his nose-rope, made him 
 follow the mare. The tired camel was left behind 
 to recover at the well. 
 
 They had only halted a short time beside 
 the well. When the moon rose they had 
 mounted their animals, and now pushed on their 
 A'ray over the great, empty, dun-coloured plain. 
 When the moon set, they halted for a brief rest. 
 At earliest dawn they went on again. Then 
 IMeshow thanked Beshara very heartily for his prom- 
 ised help, and prepared to fall behind, for they were 
 nearly there. The Bedouin said no more ; so, with 
 the usual courteous Arab salutations, they separated, 
 and Beshara proceeded to pass on ahead. Meshow, 
 after waiting patiently until Beshara had become a 
 mere speck in the distance, followed the tracks of 
 the mare. At last Meshow rode slowly down a low 
 hill, and saw in the sandy hollow at his feet a vil- 
 lage — a collection of mud houses and tents. 
 
 Meshow took great precaution not to arrive too 
 near the Bedouin douar till it was getting dark, and 
 before moonrise. 
 
 Meantime, Beshara had arrived within the 
 douar, and next day he spoke apart with the 
 Bedouin who had charge of Middleton.
 
 232 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "Thou wilt give me gold?" asked the Bedouin 
 greedily, "if I aid thee privily by night?" 
 
 ' ' When thou hast delivered him to me I will put 
 gold in thy hands. Thou knowest me — and thou 
 hast my sure promise for the rest. I will pay thee 
 all thou askest." 
 
 "I will assist thee, then," the Bedouin said 
 with sparkling eyes. "May Allah increase thy 
 wealth!" 
 
 That evening, as Middleton sat in the doorway 
 of his hut, two Arabs passed him slowly, shrouded in 
 their burnouses, with the hoods drawn up over their 
 heads. Only their black beards were visible. These 
 were Beshara and his accomplice. As the sun began 
 to set the Arabs began to pray. They east them- 
 selves upon the earth, and poured forth their cries to 
 God. Thus it came about that Middleton observed 
 a strange Bedouin, who had been earnestly engaged 
 in his devotions a little apart from his companions, 
 his prayer-carpet spread. "When he rose up, 
 Beshara passed near Middleton, as though by acci- 
 dent, and spoke to him. 
 
 "I come in ]\reshow's name, O stranger, to warn 
 and rescue thee. The Bedouin who has promised 
 help is friendly for the moment — but one cannot 
 trust him. jMeshow once saved mj'' daughter from 
 ruthless Bedouin hands. In return for this, I will do
 
 MIRAGE OP THE DESERT. 233 
 
 all I can for thee. It will need care, and must be 
 done by night, lest there be spies about. I will give 
 thee warning. Do not show haste else. But watch 
 thine opportunity to give me chance to speak with 
 thee again. We must part now, lest we be Avatched 
 by spies." 
 
 "All is now arranged." Beshara said to Mesliow, 
 whom he met later on at the appointed place outside 
 the douar, when it was dusk. His dark eyes glanced 
 about him as he spoke, with ceaseless vigilance. "In 
 the tents the men are all asleep — even the watchman 
 sleeps. I have waited long till they should sleep, 
 and now in another hour they will be called to even- 
 ing prayer. I have fastened two camels together. 
 They are close by, outside the douar, beside the 
 single palm-tree. Once mounted, with a start, none 
 can overtake thee. The water-skins are filled, and 
 dates and doora are abundantly provided for the 
 journey. I have already warned the Frank that 
 thou art waiting for him. He v/ho hath agreed to 
 help me hath got rid of the Bedouin whose turn It 
 was to-night to guard the prisoner." 
 
 "What is the hour? When shall we start?" 
 "Before the call to midnight prayer, ray 
 brother! Thou wilt be unable to leave here before 
 the moon goes down, about midnight. Then he will
 
 234 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ccme to thee. Be ready for the start when dark- 
 ness comes." 
 
 "Thou hast done well. May Allah reward 
 thee!" 
 
 So, wrapping himself up in his aba, Meshow lay 
 down to wait. By the single palm-tree Meshow 's 
 dromedaries waited. 
 
 The friendly Bedouin had contrived that Middle- 
 ton should lie that night unguarded in an empty 
 stable at the douar, 
 
 "I have bound him with a camel-halter. Yet 
 will I also guard him, Hassan," he said to the 
 Bedouin whom he was replacing. 
 
 "His bonds are guard enough," said Hassan in 
 reply. "Waste not thy time for sleep on him." 
 
 He laughed aloud at his own jest, and gladly 
 went away. 
 
 At last the waning moon went doAvn. There 
 was no movement of human life about the douar, 
 and the Bedouin cautiously approached the prisoner 
 on his hands and knees, and shook him gently, whis- 
 pering in his ear as he lay close beside him in the 
 darkness; and, still Ij'ing by him, cut his bonds and 
 freed him. 
 
 Then Lliddleton and Beshara crept forth 
 quietly, and, creeping cautiously from tree to tree, 
 from hedge to hedge, until the village and the sleep-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 23:> 
 
 ing Arabs were all safely passed, at last they reached 
 the spot outside the doiiar where Meshow awaited 
 til em with the two dromedaries. 
 
 Meshow and Middleton immediately mounted, 
 bade Beshara, his Bedouin guide and rescuer, fare- 
 well, and then travelled slowly forward in the dark. 
 "When they had gone some distance, Meshow stopped 
 his dromedary, and dismounted for a moment. 
 
 "Merciful Allah! They have arisen at the 
 douar," he said. "Hearken, for it is the hour of 
 prayer. ' ' 
 
 A plaintive note swelled out until it seemed to 
 echo over the rolling plain : — 
 
 * ' Allah Sidi ! Allah Sidi ! Allah Ali ! " 
 
 The air resounded with the cries of the Arabs. 
 
 Meshow waited quietly until they died away 
 again into unbroken silence. 
 
 His fears of pursuit aroused, in his anxiety 
 Middleton thought he heard the gallop of horses' 
 feet borne faintly on the wind. 
 
 "I will place mine ear upon the ground and 
 hearken," Meshow said briefly to Middleton. 
 
 "There is no sound of pursuit?" asked Middle- 
 ton, anxiously. 
 
 "Praise to Allah, all is silent at the douar," re- 
 sponded Meshow, rising, and remounting. 
 
 -AH night they travelled under moon and stars.
 
 236 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and also in the dark. Then the Eastern sky was 
 already changing colour.' They looked toward the 
 East, where a light, mysterious and delicate, pro- 
 claimed the coming dawn. 
 
 "It will be day soon. Look!" exclaimed Mid- 
 dleton. 
 
 As daylight came, they pressed on faster. The 
 sun was not above the horizon line of the desert, 
 but the darkness of night was passing. The air 
 felt almost cold. IMiddleton was much affected by 
 the mystery of that still hour. 
 
 "When dawn appeared they were well on their 
 way, and an hour or two after sunrise, almost all 
 danger of pursuit was left behind. 
 
 They dismounted for a rest and a hasty meal, 
 and Meshow spread mats under a solitary palm- 
 tree on a flat without grass or any other trees. 
 Beyond, the ground was covered thickly with tama- 
 risk bushes. 
 
 Middleton gladly threw himself upon his Arab 
 rug, and Meshow placed chopped tibbin before the 
 dromedaries. They had a slight repast themselves, 
 and then again pursued their way past the plains 
 of saltpetre, until the noonday halt. The blue sky 
 v;as clear, and the light of the svui intense. At 
 length the sun sank again and darkness came. 
 
 Wlien the moon was doAvn, about three hours
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 237 
 
 before dawn, they halted by a well, and slept till 
 nearly dawn. This was the old well where Meshow 
 had met Beshara; and they found here the sick 
 dromedary, now recovered by his rest. They gave 
 their dromedaries drink, and filled their water-skins, 
 and Middleton drank the coffee that Meshow had 
 made for him. 
 
 They went on at dawn, and rode awhile. The 
 aky turned hot and grey, the dawn broke, and then, 
 with the startling suddenness of the desert, the sun 
 rose, and they pushed forward. They camped for 
 a brief rest, had breakfast, and then pressed on 
 again, a light breeze stirring Middleton 's hair and 
 Meshow 's Arab robes. 
 
 When they stopped in the evening, Meshow 
 spread on the ground their sleeping mats ani 
 blankets, and recommended sleep, as they were to 
 stay here until the moon rose to light them on their 
 way. He quietly stretched himself full length and 
 slept. But Middleton was nervous and excited, and 
 be could not sleep. At last the moon rose, and they 
 resumed their journey, much to IMiddleton's relief. 
 
 Bj'-and-bj'c, having made sure they were beyond 
 all possibility of danger of pursuit, they resolved to 
 husband their dromedaries' strength. They had a 
 longer halt that day. The dromedaries were re- 
 covered now from the effects of their long, quick
 
 238 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 march, and their pursuers, ii they were indeed be- 
 hind, could not now overtake them. 
 
 "We travel no further to-day," remarked Me- 
 show, when they had ridden in silence for some 
 little time; "for it is near the hour of evening 
 prayer. Behold the swift going of the sun ! To- 
 morrow we will rise earl}^ We will halt presently, 
 for thou art weary." 
 
 "A few hours' sleep will quite restore me," 
 answered Middleton. 
 
 He slept heavily till the hour before dawn, 
 drugged by his fatigue, and hy the strong air of the 
 desert. He was wakened by Meshow. 
 
 "Marshallah! It nears the dawn, my brother: 
 Our journey is nearly at an end," the Arab said. 
 "We will soon be near the douar of jUimed Bey." 
 
 Middleton thanked him very heartily for his 
 rescue and escort. He felt sympathetic friendship 
 and brotherhood for this son of the deesrt. 
 
 "The blessing of Allah rests upon us!" said 
 ]\Ieshow.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The Arabs were clustered in large numbers by 
 a group of palms near Ahmed Bey's douar; the 
 space beneath the trees was thronged with the whits 
 figures of some other men of the desert, Avho were 
 strolling like lithe panthers up and down, watching 
 a dense crowd of Arabs who were all talking and 
 gesticulating, apparently under the influence of ex- 
 treme excitement. Half a dozen mounted camel- 
 men were there, the others standing near in groups. 
 
 They were talking violently, and waving their 
 arms. Their conversation, which v,'as in Arabic, 
 sounded violent. A deep murmur of surprise rose 
 from the group of Arabs, and deepened as the Soli- 
 tary Sheikh appeared suddenly amongst the palms, 
 and came before them. From every side the mur- 
 muring of voices rose into the brilliant air. 
 
 They were silent suddenly'. Ahmed Bey was 
 now approaching them. Behind him came two 
 negroes, with a basket and water-skin, as though 
 preparing for a journey. Ahmed Bey stood king- 
 like there amongst them. 
 
 "I have given the order for mj- men to fill the
 
 240 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 water-skins, and to be ready for a start when dark- 
 ness comes." 
 
 The hush amongst the listening Arabs was in- 
 tense. They stood in the dim light of the palms, 
 tall and fantastic, with the long, high necks and 
 supercilious heads of their camels swaying above 
 them. Their evening fire threw its red light over 
 the group of hearkening Arabs. The sheikh, Ahmed 
 Bey, was standing with his back to it, his hard, 
 fierce face turned toAvards his men. The Solitary 
 Sheikh stood still before him, at a little distance, in 
 his flowing white robes. 
 
 "Hearken, all of ye!" 
 
 Ahmed Bey spoke harshly and abruptly. The 
 accented Arab words were like quick, .sharp blows. 
 
 "Yusuf hath complained of his sister, the wo- 
 man Fetneh's lengthy disappearance from her hus- 
 band's douar. And, further, the Frankish people 
 yonder have accused my kinsman of some treachery 
 toward the man whom they name Middleton. They 
 demand that I bring Mahmoud Bey. my cousin, to 
 account for it. Moreover, the Great Solitary One, 
 the Sheikh of all the Sheikhs, hath come to me to 
 make complaint, and hath demanded at my hands 
 the Frank's appearance here; and at the hands of 
 Mahmoud Bey, my kinsman, on his guests' behalf. I 
 say nothing to ye of Mahmoud 's previous treachery
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 241 
 
 tovv^ard myself, which, "was the cause of our late 
 quarrel. ' ' 
 
 Pie spoke again, with harsh, abrupt, quick voice. 
 "Hearken, my brothers! Which of ye will seek 
 for Mahraoud Bey, and bring him to me here?" 
 
 The Arabs consulted together in little groups, 
 with occasional oblique glances towards the Solitary 
 Sheikh, who still stood motionless and silent, listen- 
 ing intently. The incessant murmur of their voices 
 seemed hoarse and pathetic — subtly suggestive, too, 
 of danger. 
 
 Ahmed Bey had drooped his head in some un- 
 easy thought, and stood motionless before the fire, 
 frowning heavily and pondering. Then the fierce 
 old Arab raised his head again and spoke quickly 
 in Arabic in sharp, imperative, quick sentences. An 
 angr}' fire was gleaming in his eyes. 
 
 They saw the sudden gleam and flutter of white 
 flowing garments, as the Solitary Sheikh stepped 
 forward. 
 
 "Allah Akbar! Leave it to Allah, and draw lots 
 if ye cannot settle it amongst ye who will seek Mah- 
 moud Bey." 
 
 There was a moment of deep silence. Then from 
 the crowd burst forth the cry of many voices. 
 
 "Yea, a sign from Allah! Put it to the trial, 
 
 and one of us will go." 
 
 p
 
 242 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Fetneli's young brother, Yusuf, now stood for- 
 vv^ard eagerly. 
 
 "I will seek ]\Ialimoud Bey, and will deliver 
 unto him thy message." 
 
 Ahmed Bey's hard face was cloudy and almost 
 cruel. He uttered a low, fierce exclamation. 
 
 "^lerciful Allah! And the Frank! One who 
 hath eaten of our bread and salt! Is this indeed 
 our boasted Arab hospitality- ?" 
 
 A long low murmuring arose once more out of 
 the crowd of Arabs. 
 
 "Go, my brothers, many of ye, each seek ye dif- 
 ferent ways!" said Alimed Bey. "Seek ye in the 
 desert Mahmoud Bey until ye find him. Mohammed, 
 and thou, Hassan, take a sufficient number of men 
 with ye. Bring Mahmoud here b}^ force if he will 
 not come willingly." 
 
 His voice became fierce for a moment. Then 
 Ahmed Bey disappeared heavily into the shadow of 
 the palms, and Yusuf mounted his horse and rode 
 away, followed by the party of mounted camel- 
 men. 
 
 The white figures of the Arabs flitted through 
 the trees. They vanished like phantoms of the night 
 into the desolation of the waste beyond. 
 
 Next morning a council was held in the sheikh's 
 house, at which the leading men were all present;
 
 :mirage of the desert. 243 
 
 and, on this occasion, in attending it, they wore 
 tbeir swords with silver hilts. Occasional messen- 
 gers arrived, rode up, and after a few words with 
 the sheikh, they disappeared. Mounted camel-men 
 were instantly despatched, and sent off on flying 
 expeditions. Two horsemen were galloping at a 
 tremendous pace into the desert. The Solitary 
 Sheikh's face was very grave. 
 
 An Arab outside the douar presently approached 
 Ylr. Cleveland where he stood talking earnestly 
 with Dick, and touched his arm. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked hastily, as he turned 
 round to him. 
 
 For answer the Arab pointed out across the 
 desert. 
 
 "Lo! Far away are two men on camels, and 
 they are riding toward us." 
 
 Mr. Cleveland strained his eyes in vain. The 
 distance was so great that he could only be sure 
 that they were men on dromedaries. Two figures 
 indeed were moving swiftly across its expanse, re- 
 lieved against the ground. He saw them dimly, dip- 
 ping and rising over the rolling, undulating waste. 
 "They have no spears!" the Arab said. 
 As he spoke, they passed over the edge of a 
 depression ; in another instant they had disappeared 
 from view.
 
 244 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Far away he could now hear the dull, soft thud- 
 ding of galloping camels. The other Arabs paid but 
 little heed to the mounted camel-men who were 
 drawing near. They might be only messengers like 
 the rest. But presently the Solitary Sheikh turne<i 
 quickly, and said something in curt Arabic to Ah- 
 med Bey. 
 
 The people of the douar now grcAv interested, 
 and approached to look. Their keen black eyes 
 roved restlessly around, and now far out across the 
 plain tAvo figures could be distinctly seen. 
 
 Thus Meshow and ]\Iiddletou, arriving, found 
 the group of Arabs awaiting them. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland hastened forward eagerly to wel- 
 come Middleton. The Arabs, in their grave, digni- 
 fied fashion, saluted one another. Meshow went 
 apart at once with Ahmed Bey to exchange experi- 
 ences — and he told his uncle what he knew of ]Mah- 
 moud. Ahmed Bey and Meshow were talking apart 
 together in that stern and restrained fashion so 
 strange in an Eastern race. The Arabs were watch- 
 ing them with an intent, new interest upon theii" 
 swarthy faces. And Middleton was gazing at a 
 figure in flowing, white robes, now seen amidst the 
 group of Arabs. The Solitary Sheikh, for it was 
 he, observing this, suddenly withdrew into the soft 
 twilight of the palm grove, where he disappeared 
 from view. Nor did Middleton see him here again 
 that day.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 On approchiiig the quarters of the English party 
 with Mr. Cleveland and his son, IMiddleton was met 
 most eagerly and heartily by Miss Seraphina and by 
 Cecil, whose sweet face was keen and bright, and 
 flushed with intense joy. Middleton looked eagerly 
 upon her happy countenarrte, as he took her hand 
 in silent greeting. 
 
 When they had all settled down into a state of 
 greater quietude, Dick requested Middleton to give 
 them some account of his experiences amongst the 
 Wandering Bedouins, and he complied, to their 
 great interest. 
 
 "These wild tribes lead a most poetical and» 
 wonderful life," said JNIiddleton; "roaming care- 
 lessly about from one spot to another; month here, 
 year there, week somewhere else. They live their 
 days as their progenitors lived theirs, when Isaac's 
 servant met Rebecca at the well — simply pastoral — •" 
 
 "And simply dirt^^" supplemented Dick. 
 
 "Their douar was a fit subject for a picture in 
 the evenings," said JMiddleton. "When the sun 
 had set, whilst the sky was still a blaze of crimson
 
 246 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 and silver, with the lingering afternoon glow, ima- 
 gine coming slowly homeward from the well, the 
 women and girls, bearing on their heads their water- 
 vessels. Then, driven by gay, dancing urchins, 
 come the lowing herds and bleating goats ; the ur- 
 chins playing on reed flutes. The sound of the 
 women's corn-mills came from the tents, and the 
 blue smoke rose lightly into breathless air." 
 
 "Why didn't you attempt escape before?" 
 asked Dick. "Were you watched and guarded all 
 the time?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed I was. The noise the Bedouin 
 made at my hut door during the nights was often 
 unendurable. He sometimes spent the whole night 
 shouting verses from the Koran." 
 
 "I suppose it was to keep himself awake." 
 ' ' Yes — but it also kept me awake ! ' ' 
 "Then he killed two birds with one stone!" 
 
 "I think the Arabs here are very brave," Miss 
 Seraphina said admiringly. "That fat old sheikh, 
 especially. Talk of courage — pluck — I never saw 
 such nerve! Why, when they came behind him, 
 and fired off a gun close to his ear, the Arab merely 
 smiled!" 
 
 "Best of all reasons — he's stone deaf!" said 
 Dick.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 247 
 
 "Although the Arabs appear so dignified," said 
 Cecil, "they are as fidl of simple curiosity as chil- 
 dren. ' ' 
 
 "One AralD here reminds me of the old nurserj^ 
 tale where a king, being out a-hunting in his forest, 
 came upon an old woman in a hut there, making 
 apple dumplings. The king w^as anxious to know 
 how the apples got into the dumplings — and, on 
 being shown, returned hot-foot to his palace, and 
 spent the remainder of the day in his own kitchen, 
 teaching his courtiers to make apple dumplings." 
 
 "I would like to start mothers' meetings in this 
 village," remarked ]Miss Seraphina thoughtfully. "I 
 would teach the women sewing, and cooking, on the 
 English system." 
 
 "I wonder how it'd answer," said Dick, re- 
 flectively. 
 
 "Then, the men," Miss Seraphina said, "I'd 
 give Men's Teas, and teach them something useful. 
 It is sad to see the Arabs waste their precious time 
 galloping about the desert, carrying big spears!" 
 
 "Oh, let the shoemaker stick to his last!" said 
 Dick. "Pray be content to educate the women, and 
 leave the men alone. ^Vhat can a woman know 
 about men's occupations?" 
 
 "I attended Evening IMeetings held in London," 
 said Miss Seraphina, "where we did all we could,
 
 248 MIEAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 bj' mentioning the good that we would do amongst 
 the men.'" 
 
 "But it never seemed to come to anything but 
 talk, and tasty little suppers I" answered Dick. 
 
 As soon as he could compass it, ^Nliddleton asked 
 Cecil to walk a little way apart with him. AVhen 
 they were out of sight and hearing of the rest, he 
 turned to her, and warmly clasped her hands in 
 his. 
 
 "Dearest — you are glad to see me — I can read 
 it in your face. Have absence, and my danger, 
 taught you that you care for me — that I am in your 
 heart? You will give me a kinder answer than the 
 one I had from you before?" 
 
 The palm-leaves swayed gently in the evening 
 breeze, and there was no sound save the gentle nuir- 
 muring from the douar close by. Cecil looked 
 dreamily over the blue distances, at the dimness of 
 shadowy palms at the desert's edge; at the glowing 
 evening sky, and at the misty, distant hills. Then 
 she, for answer, raised her tender and eloquent eyes 
 to his. Ere Middleton could speak again, they were 
 interrupted by her cousin. 
 
 But under the stars that night Middleton paced 
 restlessly alone the desert waste outside the sleep- 
 ing douar. The night was very still and very 
 warm. There was no moon. The waste itself Avas 
 scarcely visible; a mere dimness of shadowing out-
 
 IMIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 249 
 
 line showing itself. About the doiiar there was no 
 sound or stir ; absolute silence reigned in the desert. 
 And here he underwent a cruel struggle with him- 
 self. For he felt that he had been unfair to Cecil — 
 had taken her at disadvantage — and that he must 
 perforce resign his longed-for happiness. 
 
 As the result of these sad musings beneath the 
 stars, next morning he invited Cecil to walk alone 
 with him. 
 
 The fresh breeze was in their faces, and the 
 flickering shadows of the swaying palm-trees made 
 a pleasant shade from the hot sun as they went forth 
 into the blue and gold of morning, enveloped in a, 
 perfect glow of light and warmth. 
 
 "I was too hasty, Cecil, when we spoke to- 
 gether last," said IMiddleton, hurriedh^ "We can- 
 not marry, dear — I had no right to ask you for your 
 love. I must think first of my brother." 
 
 Cecil proudly raised her drooping head, and 
 glanced up quickly at him, with a sympathetic look. 
 Her awakened love, with all its unsuspected capa- 
 bilities and depths, at once had grasped intuitively 
 an outline of the facts. And she felt a rare, keen 
 joy, and an eager admiration for the man who 
 Avalked beside her, as she noted his expression when 
 he spoke of his brother. She put out her hand and 
 touched his arm caressingly. It was the nearest ap-
 
 250 :\IIEAGE OF TPIE DESERT. 
 
 proach to tenderness she had put into her manner 
 since the.y had been together on the ship. And she 
 raised her beautiful, clear eyes to regard him \vith 
 a look of softness, such as Middletou had never 
 seen in them before. 
 
 But the man was slow to understand ; afraid to 
 think how much she cared for him. 
 
 "You once told me to let you know/' she said, 
 with a lovelv radiant look, "if I learnt to care for 
 you." 
 
 "There was a difference in my position then," 
 said Middleton. "I only realise now what kind of 
 quest I undertook. I made a promise it may take 
 a lifetime to perform. Ah ! do not tempt me, Cecil 1 
 There seemed a different ending when I spoke be- 
 fore." 
 
 "It is just that difference that made me care 
 for you — it won my heart ! ' ' 
 
 "I can never hope to win you now," he an- 
 swered, sadly. "The difficulties that have arisen 
 are too great. Think not I have abandoned yet for 
 one mischance, my desert quest. Arthur must, and 
 shall be, found! I have tasted the bitterness of this 
 captivity, and I have known the bitter, after-flavour 
 of that taste. Cecil ! my vision of the Mirage of the 
 Desert must be realised!" 
 
 But Cecil answered gently: —
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 251 
 
 "All! You see it now yourself — I said before 
 that you might change your mind ere I could 
 speak." 
 
 Dearest Cecil — is it possible you do not under- 
 stand? My heart aches with my pain because I 
 may not speak. I shall be poor when he is found, 
 for I must then transfer to him his rights. I'm 
 not lawfully entitled to my home or my estates. And 
 it may take me more than half my lifetime to fulfil 
 my cjuest." 
 
 "I love you even more, if that be possible, for 
 that same honourable poverty," Cecil said, in 
 deeply-shaken tones. 
 
 Then, with flushed and burning cheeks, she 
 added, softly: — 
 
 "John — must I plead in vain to you for my own 
 happiness. I will assist you in your quest. I will 
 wait patiently for you. And I have enough for both 
 of us — it is your own ! I have learnt thoroughly 
 your meaning; when you said once that if I loved, 
 I should know then that it might not be difficult to 
 tell you so!" 
 
 They were in a secluded spot, and ]\Iiddleton 
 suddenly raised his hands and took her face be- 
 tween them very gently. Cecil had begun to 
 tremble. Holding her soft face between his hands, 
 ho looked earnestly at her. Then he dropped his
 
 252 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 hands again, and drew her closely to his heart. 
 Cecil gave a contented little sigh next moment, for 
 her head was on his breast, and she was in his arms 
 — and he was beading down his head to kiss her 
 quivering, sweet mouth. 
 
 She kneAV now that everj^ hour they had been 
 together on the desert she unconsciouslj^ had been 
 tarning to him, as to the one man who had gained 
 her whole heart and esteem, and when she thought 
 that he was in great danger — that she perchance 
 had lost him — she had first begun to realise what 
 Middleton was to her. 
 
 ' ' Those who appear to be the simplest are often 
 the most complex and most difficult to know, or 
 rightly understand," said ]\Iiddleton, thoughtfully. 
 "Some people like their friends to be mysterious. 
 They seem to like best what they cannot under- 
 stand — doubt and uncertainty still keep them on." 
 
 "No — that, I think, depends on disposition — 
 faith — and temperament. In my opinion, under- 
 standing faith is everything — most people seem to 
 like best what they understand." 
 
 "To be in doubt would weary some, drive 
 others mad. Doubting things go wrong oft hurts 
 more than to be sure they do!" 
 
 "Better to have the most hopeless separation 
 and most miserable misunderstanding than to lose
 
 MIRAdE OF THE DESERT. 253 
 
 faith in one's friend," said Cecil, fervently; "or to 
 lose belief in their worth." 
 
 "If one likes things they seem perfect. If one 
 does not care, perfection itself is nothing. One is sen- 
 sible of no loss as long as one can trust, believe." 
 
 Then Middleton told Cecil of his journey home- 
 wards with Meshow, under sun, and moon, and 
 stars ; and alone together in the dark. 
 
 "Night travelling has a potent charm for me," 
 he said. "The night on the waste is dry and clear, 
 the breath of the wilderness so soothing ; the whis- 
 per of the desert so mysterious." 
 
 "The great waste is so still," said Cecil; "it 
 stretches before one dimly, seeming to draw ona 
 ever forward." 
 
 "The air is soft and sweet, as it passes tenderly 
 across one's fevered brow," said Middleton. "The 
 measured step of the dromedary on the sand moves 
 with the same fresh and unwearied tread as it did 
 when one first started in the morning." 
 
 Middleton spoke feelingly about Meshow. 
 "I shall never forget our friend of the desert!" 
 Cecil said. 
 
 "The only reason," said Middleton, "that I can 
 think of why Meshow should have shown me such 
 devotion is his adventurous disposition; for he posi-
 
 254 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 tively seemed to delight in the risk he ran himself 
 at the hands of the Bedouins in rescuing me." 
 
 But Cecil, for the first time since their meeting, 
 turned her head away from Middleton, gazing yearn- 
 ingly away into the distance. For she was troubled 
 in her soul. And once again she saw, in thought, 
 iMeshow's great adoration for her glowing in his 
 deep poetic eyes. 
 
 "I never grasped a hand in sad farewell with 
 deeper or more kindly feelings, ' ' she said long after- 
 wards to Middleton, ' ' than I did that of this nobly- 
 born and noble-minded Arab who risked his life to 
 aid me, and who practically gave it in my service!"
 
 CHAPTER .XX. 
 
 The next afternoon came Yusuf galloping to- 
 wards the donar with his party of camel-men, and 
 ]\rahmond Bey upon his mare Feyruzah. And Mah- 
 mond Bey laughed scornfully as he rode by. 
 
 The Arabs saw them coming, and waved their 
 lances in the air in welcome to their friends. They 
 had never heard the sound of them on the soft, 
 shifting sand, and against the strong desert wind 
 that had sprung up. The graceful heads were 
 tossed, and the limbs of the horses quivered rest- 
 lessly as they pulled up ; and. leaping, off his horse, 
 Yusuf went straight into the sheikh's house. 
 
 AVhen. in a few moments, he came forth again, 
 Ahmed Bey was with him. He gave rapid orders, 
 and the douar hummed like a hive with busy Arabs. 
 The young sheikh, ]\Ieshow, came over and stood by 
 his uncle's side as he confronted ]Mahmoud. The 
 Arabs, greatly interested, stood round, listening; 
 and Middleton was staring at the white-robed figure 
 of the Solitary Sheikh, as he advanced towards them 
 through the twilight of the palm-grove, coming
 
 256 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 forth into the golden vistas from the dusky shadows 
 of the trees. 
 
 jVhmed Bey stood like a graven image ; but his 
 cousin showed no perturbation. Alimed Bey's face 
 became hard and severe; his Arab dignity and re- 
 serve forbade expression of his grievous wrath and 
 wounded feelings. Though a barbarian, he was a 
 kingly and majestic man. 
 
 The waiting hush amongst the hearkening 
 Arabs was extreme. There was a moment of deep 
 silence. Then from the crowd burst forth the cry 
 ot many voices; — 
 
 "Put it to the trial, and may Allah judge be- 
 tween them!" 
 
 "Such things are in the hands of Allah only," 
 said the Solitary Sheikh, who had been hearkening 
 in silence, speaking now for the first time. 
 
 A long, low murmuring arose once more out of 
 the crowd of Arabs. The Solitary Sheikh's words 
 had appealed to them. 
 
 "Allah Akbar! God is just!" 
 
 "Praise to Allah!" 
 
 Alimed Bey's face became fierce for a moment 
 as he looked at Mahmoud. 
 
 "We have heard the story of thy treachery to- 
 wards the Frank," said Ahmed Bej'. "Now we de-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 257 
 
 mand of thee that thou produce to us thy wife, the 
 woman Fetneh." 
 
 ''What hast thou done with my sister, Fetneh, 
 she who was thy wife?" demanded Yusuf, fiercely. 
 "Wilt thou answer now. Mahmoud Bey?" 
 
 The gentle, languorous youth was now quite 
 roused and altered. 
 
 "She is where thou shalt not find her, my 
 brother! Yet shalt thou seek her there," was the 
 enigmatic answer. "Allah is good, and Paradise is 
 very pleasant!" 
 
 "Has the woman lived or died?" 
 
 ."Allah is just, and He takes life for life!" 
 
 "Of Allah will I speak to thee hereafter. Tell 
 me, where is the woman?" 
 
 "She is hidden in the desert — go, seek her in 
 the ruined old Mosque ! I have spoken — let me now 
 depart in peace." 
 
 "By Allah! No!" shouted Yusuf. "I come in 
 war to settle my account. If I conquer, I will offer 
 to thee choice between death and full confession." 
 
 "It shall not be required. Empty drums make 
 the loudest noise!" Mahmoud answered scornfully. 
 
 Yusuf sprang to one side suddenly, so that jMah- 
 moud's spear missed him by a hair's breadth. 
 
 "Dog! Allah will avenge thy treachery upon 
 thee!" 
 
 Q
 
 258 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Mahmoud suddenly threw off all pretence of 
 graceful calm, and poured forth a seething, molten 
 torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with 
 passionate gestures. 
 
 "By the Prophet's beard," said Mahmoud, 
 fiercely, "I will avenge Allah on thee! Hearken! 
 I^etneh was my betrothed — j^et thereafter she be- 
 trayed my love — and therefore sought I vengeance ! 
 Then seek thou thy sister in the lonely desert 
 Mosque!" 
 
 "The oasis and the mosque could not be reached 
 b}' the swiftest camel under several days' journey 
 from this place," said Yusuf gloomily. 
 
 "Thou would 'st be too late to save her, Yu- 
 suf," INIahmoud answered, with a bitter sneer. 
 
 Yusuf bowed his head, and turned his face 
 away in silence. Then he answered slowly : — 
 
 "Merciful Allah! Meanest thou I am too late 
 already? — It is Kismet!" 
 
 He turned away, heart-sick, in that silence be- 
 yond .speech. 
 
 Then came sudden change. Yusuf 's heart was 
 beating fast and madly, and he felt a burning in his 
 brain. 
 
 "As Allah lives, I will do unto thee even as 
 thou hast done to Fetneh. Thou, too, shalt perish 
 miserably in the desert mosque."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 259 
 
 A sudden look of apprehension and of great 
 horror came on Mahmoud's face. 
 
 Then Yusuf's blood turned to liquid fire. 
 
 But a sinister expression crept into Mahmoud's 
 subtle face. 
 
 "By Mahomet's beard! I am not conquered 
 yet!" 
 
 He looked at Yusuf with cruel, crafty eyes. 
 Yusuf's wild, dark eyes were flashing murderously. 
 A flame burnt fiercely up within his heart, and even 
 as the light of day turned red, so the white heat of 
 an unsparing anger burnt within his brain. Then 
 came swift and sudden vengeance. 
 
 ' ' My heart is on fire ! ]\Iy brain burns. The 
 pulses in my temples throb with anguish. Allah, 
 have I not borne enough already? I will avenge 
 my sister on thee ! ' ' 
 
 IMahmoud had turned away from him, and sud- 
 denly he sprang upon his horse to fly. In another 
 instant Yusuf had shot Mahmoud's horse from under 
 him. The scream of the mare as it staggered under 
 him rang pathetically in the bystanders' ears. 
 
 Then this strange, fierce son of the desert, on 
 rising to his feet, lifted up his mare's head in his 
 arms, whilst his tears fell fast. 
 
 "Alas, Feyruzah — never more wilt thou bear 
 thy master like the wings of the wind across the
 
 260 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 desert! Allah, avenge me quickly! Ah, woe! 
 woe!" 
 
 The Arabs all stood watching him with deep 
 interest. They stood grave and silent, pitying him, 
 perhaps, within their hearts. 
 
 Then ]\Iahmoud Bey burst forth, at last, with 
 his confession. 
 
 "At the last." he said, "did Fetneh cry to me 
 for mercy — and I let her die. Repenting, m a little 
 while did I return to her, and it was too late. It 
 was written ! What is done is done. Thou mayest 
 take my life for hers, but thou canst not bring the 
 Avoman back to life." he added heavily. 
 
 His face was set — afterwards Middleton told 
 himself it had a fatalistic look. 
 
 Silently in the gathering shadows had the Arab.s 
 heard the tale. The most aAvful stillness succeeded. 
 There was no moving thing. It was a hot, close 
 afternoon, and the air came in scorching waves. 
 
 "Take my life!" !!Mahmoud cried out i)assion- 
 ately, in Arabic. "Take it, for it is now worthless 
 to me — and let me depart in peace to Paradise. 
 Feyruzah gone, I now have nought to live for!" 
 
 Then again, a sudden change swept over him, 
 as his eyes fell on Meshow. 
 
 "Thou didst release from his captivity, Me-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 261 
 
 show, the accursed Frank, who is the cause of all 
 my woe ! ' ' 
 
 There was a sudden flash— a spear flew past — 
 a faint sobbing cry of mortal anguish. And Me- 
 show sank on the sand, shot through the breast. 
 
 At the same instant jMahmoud sprang on the 
 dismounted Ghudda's horse, and fled away — escap- 
 ing far beyond pursuit into the waste. Ghudda re- 
 mained there, standing quietly, and looking after the 
 flying steed with yearning eyes. With a stranga 
 mixture of sadness and of pride, he said: — 
 
 ' ' I would not shame thee by pursuit, O beloved ! 
 There is none can overtake my mare, Zeenab, when 
 she goeth at her best!" 
 
 So ]\Iahmoud Bey passed from their life and 
 knowledge, and their sight ^ for ever. 
 
 Cecil was hurrying forth to come to them, when 
 Ghudda rushed up hastily to her tent. 
 
 "There has been some fighting. Meshow is 
 wounded, and he lieth near. He asks for thee, 
 lady, to say farewell, ere he departeth unto Para- 
 dise. Therefore, came I here to seek thee." 
 
 Cecil quickly followed him, and knelt beside 
 the dying Arab, weeping, as she bent over him. But 
 Meshow smiled. 
 
 "Weepest thou for me, Lady of Light? Are
 
 262 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 thy precious tears indeed for me ! life ! Then T 
 die happy!" 
 
 "You have j3:iven up your life in service to me, 
 and have lost it," she said sadly, in the fluent Arabic 
 he himself had taught her. "Live for me, Meshow!" 
 
 "Nay, lady, it is Kismet! It is Allah's will 
 I now depart. I have saved thy beloved for thee," 
 he murmured, "and my soul is satisfied. I cannot 
 live for thee as I desired to live. Therefore is it 
 best I die. Be content, for Allah is all-wise — doth 
 all things well." 
 
 Cecil tried in vain to thank him for his ser- 
 vice, but her tears fell fast, and Lleshow stopped 
 her, saying:— 
 
 "It is nothing, light of mine eyes — for I have 
 loved thee!" 
 
 He had answered her with a sweet gravity, an 
 ever-deepening pathos in his faint tones; and now 
 repeated slowly : — 
 
 "Allah is all-wise and merciful — my time hath 
 surely come! God is the only God — Mahomet is 
 His Prophet!" 
 
 As he spoke he closed his eyes. 
 
 Cecil gently took his hands in hers, but she 
 could not speak. 
 
 He presently unclosed his eyes again. 
 
 "Goo(1-l)ve," snid Meshow, with a faint smile.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 263 
 
 "And remember, when thou art in far-away lands, 
 thou hadst once a friend in the Great Desert!" 
 
 His eyes had the far-off intentness of one who 
 saw beyond the view of his companions. 
 
 "There — where the sky touches earth — Para- 
 dise — "V\Tiat is written, is written!"
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 As the party approached the doiiar of the Soli- 
 tary Sheikh, some few days later on, Middleton ob- 
 served fresh pastures of one universal green. And 
 shrubs, and plants, and palms. Where the heat of 
 the arid waste was exchanged for the fresh and 
 cooling breeze ; and where the vast solitudes of the 
 desert were no more. 
 
 Then, at a pleasant rising of the land, grass took 
 the place of shrubs and plants, and the long swells 
 of rich pasturage were dotted with fat camels and 
 their young. It was a sudden change from the arid 
 to the fertile, and from silent desolation to the 
 tuneful. They inlialed the fragrance of sweet 
 flowers, and heard the cheerful bleating of the sheep 
 and goats, and merry cries of Arab children, sport- 
 ing on the fresh green turf. 
 
 Then they came into a land of palm-gardens, 
 where they heard the soft cooing of the i)igeonsamid 
 a golden calm, and saw them flying over the palms. 
 Here an Arab approached Middleton. 
 
 "The Solitary Sheikh would speak v.'itli thee, 
 Frank, beneath the palms. Under the date-palms 
 in the grove the Solitary One awaiteth thee."
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 265 
 
 ]\Iiddleton went thither with all haste, to an 
 alley between Avails of brown earth, where there 
 were many palms with tufted dark green foliage. 
 As far as eyes could see stretched the groves of 
 palms, the feathery tops swaying in the gentle wind, 
 now blowing in freshly from the desert. 
 
 Here no man appeared in view, no huts were 
 seen by Middleton, no Arab robe was moving alonj; 
 the softly-tinted shadows. But a blazing radiance 
 ■shone all around, a perfect flood of richest blue and 
 gold; and the sand, where his feet touched it, was 
 golden in the golden light. 
 
 Under the tall, straight, plumy palms, with 
 their clusters of yellow or purple fruit, there was 
 a softened dimness. AYhere the palms cast their 
 fantastic shadows on the sand, contrasting with 
 the sunlight where the shade of foliage ceased, he 
 saw a white-robed figure under a large palm-tree, 
 standing motionless as Arabs often stand. At a little 
 distance his figure had been almost lost in the deep 
 shadows of the trees. This was the Solitarv Sheikh, 
 v.'hose welcome to Jliddleton was a quiet smile and 
 a warm grasp of the hand. 
 
 The full grey eyes in the Sheikh 's dark face, 
 that so attracted Arabs, betrayed at once to Middle- 
 ton alien blood, although his cheeks were broAvned 
 by many desert suns.
 
 266 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 "I have longed greatly for this meeting," said 
 Middleton, eagerly, "for I wish to ask yonr help. 
 I have heard strange rumours of an Englishman 
 who mysteriously appeared, and then seemed to 
 vanish as mysteriously amongst the Arabs in the 
 desert." 
 
 The Solitary Sheikh had turned his head aside, 
 and looked away towards the dense thickets of the 
 palms. 
 
 ^Middleton paused suddenly, and looked more 
 closely at his companion. A sudden thought flashed 
 through his active mind. 
 
 "I had a brother once," he said, impulsively. 
 "He made no sign for many years, and could not 
 be traced ; so that many of his friends believed him 
 dead. But I have heard these rumours, and I ask 
 if you have power and inclination to help me find 
 this missing Englishman, lest he may be my bro- 
 ther?" 
 
 Ill the dark, bearded, agitated face, now turned 
 to him, was an old look that Middleton seemed to 
 know. 
 
 "I implore you to assist me find my brother! I 
 believe there is something in these tales amongst 
 the Arabs here concerning the Englishman." 
 
 "What!" the Solitary Sheikh cried suddenly, 
 in pnrost English. "You desire to seek your
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 267 
 
 brother, who would rob you of your well-loved 
 home ^ when found, and who would practically bej?- 
 gar you as a return?" 
 
 Middleton started violently, and caught the 
 Arab's hand in his. 
 
 "You are no Arab!" he exclaimed, vehemently. 
 
 lie felt the contact of a ring upon the hand of 
 the Solitary Sheikh, and raised his hand to look at 
 it. He saw a signet ring upon his finger, and the 
 blood rushed to his face in a hot flood. 
 
 "I know this ring! You are the Englishman — 
 and my lost brother! Arthur — is it possible? Oh, 
 I was blind indeed, for I can trace the likeness now, 
 in spite of the disguise of this strange dress. You 
 are my brother!" 
 
 His brother grasped his hands, but could not 
 speak. After a little meditative thought he re- 
 sponded anxiously : — 
 
 "If I went home, Jack, what would you do 
 now ? ' ' 
 
 "I?" returned Middleton, gladh', with no 
 anxiety at all. "Oh, I have much to tell you, Ar- 
 thur — be content!" 
 
 He smiled happily to himself as he thought of 
 a certain pair of beautiful and sympathetic violet 
 eyes. He was still wondering what reason Arthur
 
 268 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 would give for his long silence. Wondered greatly 
 v^hat had been his motive for it — what story he 
 wonld tell. No suspicion of the truth had dawned 
 yet on his mind. 
 
 But he watched his brother, with a momentary 
 struggle in his breast. In his vigil beneath the 
 stars he had felt it would be doubly hard to give up 
 his position and his wealth now, when he might win 
 Cecil, though natural affection would have gladly 
 welcomed back his brother from the lost or dead. 
 
 He had often thought of their old boyish days 
 together — and of their difference of character in 
 the old times. He, the younger, clever, bright, and 
 brilliantly gifted ; physically strong, protective. And 
 Arthur, slight and delicate of make, retiring, studi- 
 ous, and diffident — ever looking up to him at every 
 turn with loving confidence and admiration; de- 
 pending on him, leaning on his strength. 
 
 These early recollections helped him now. He 
 felt keenly the old loving and protective instinct 
 waking strongly in his breast. Now that he had 
 found him, Arthur, if need be, should have good 
 cause to trust, depend, lean on him still. He, John, 
 would now resign to him with joy his rightful place, 
 and use his love and strength to make him grace 
 if. well. 
 
 "I am become a perpetual seeker after know-
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 269 
 
 ledge — an earnest student of the sacred lore and 
 learning of the East," said Arthur presently; "and 
 I am happy here. I should be miserable and unfit 
 in cities now. I dearly love and prize these desert 
 solitudes. And I am in keen sympathy with this 
 wild people, who love and fear, and almost worship 
 me, as one descended from Mahomet, their own 
 Prophet. I have a motive for remaining in the de- 
 sert. In a way I have become a visionary — I feel 
 that I indeed am something of a seer and a prophet 
 amongst the Arabs, whom I love and luiderstand. 
 And I myself am something of a fatalist. Yea, even 
 1 believe in Kismet, with the most sincere amongst 
 the many followers of Mahomet." 
 
 Middleton said gravely: — 
 
 "Why did you act thus, at first? Did you see 
 the advertisements — ^receive our letters to you?" 
 
 "The earlier ones I did receive. Afterwards I 
 knew, if I returned, the chances were you would 
 already have assumed my own position, and be in 
 assured possession of the property. I could not en- 
 dure the thought of dispossessing you, so I remained 
 away. It was all that I could do. And I pene- 
 trated then into the farthest places of the desert I 
 have learnt to love. You have heard a portion of 
 my story — it is rife amongst the Arabs how I came 
 amongst them. "With my sun-darkened face, and
 
 270 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 my dark hair, I have always passed amongst them 
 as an Arab. I know now that I am eminently fitted 
 for this kind of life," he added, with a slow and 
 grave, faint smile. 
 
 Middleton thought often afterwards that Ar- 
 thur's look vv^as almost sad, and fatalistic. 
 
 ' ' Do not say that, Arthur ! " he responded, with 
 emotion. "It cuts me to the heart!" 
 
 "My father alwaj^s loved you best," his brother 
 added, simply. And Middleton winced to hear. 
 "You were better fitted than myself to take his 
 place, for you were practical — whilst I was always 
 dreaming. Recollect, my brother, the old bond be- 
 tween us! And, moreover, it would be too late — 
 quite useless now!" 
 
 "No! It need never be too late. You must re- 
 turn to England," Middleton said, firmly, "and 
 there take your rightful place. It is my heartfelt 
 wish!" 
 
 A last secret twinge of regret and pain shot 
 through his heart as he remembered all it meant to 
 him — but it was quickly conquered — for had he not 
 won Cecil through this very loss? Ana his lasf; 
 regret was altogether banished by the sight of the 
 sun-darkened, noble, soulful, and unselfish face be- 
 fore him, as Arthur quickly turned to him and 
 grasped John's hands in his.
 
 MURAGE OF THE DESERT. 271 
 
 ' ' Dear old fellow — ray heart overflows with love, 
 and my old pride in you!" 
 
 "Why did you do it, xVrthur?" Middleton 
 asked again, with a great wonder in his soul, remem- 
 bering his own late scathing pain in that silent 
 watch of night under the desert stars, upon the 
 plain, when he was mentally relinquishing his 
 deeply-valued dignity and position in his own land. 
 
 "Perhaps it did — at first!" his brother said, 
 with a faint smile. "I was a dreaming youngster, 
 suddenly aroused to an unwonted anger by the 
 cruel injustice of a hard old man. And you were 
 his favourite son — but we were always friends, Jack, 
 were we not?" 
 
 He turned to Middleton, and placed his hand 
 upon his shoulder in the old loving fashion. 
 
 "And now I have a motive for remaining in 
 the desert!" 
 
 "How came all this about?" asked Middleton, 
 
 w^onderingly, as he observed him with keen interest. 
 
 "I had ever felt confined, environed by my life 
 
 in a civilised and overcrowded world. I desired a 
 greater freedom. I desired a limitless horizon; the 
 free winds of heaven ; the golden glory of the sun ; 
 unrestrained wide spaces ; glowing, radiant, noontide 
 heat; and mysterious, silent nights. I wished to be
 
 272 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 myself absorbed in an immensity of space and lone- 
 liness of which I had often dreamed. 
 
 "On my journey hither, one day I was riding 
 over desolate tracts in the heart of the great desert. 
 I Avas wearied, and felt almost in a trance. The 
 strong atmosphere, the clear sky, and the endless flats 
 devoid of vegetation, and Avithout signs of life — and 
 the monotonous motion of my dromedarj^ — all these 
 things combined together to dull my brain, and to 
 throw me into a strange, unwonted state. Then 
 the mysticism of the desert first came upon me with 
 the wonder of its silence. Till that moment I had 
 never known what solitude really was. The desert 
 spoke to me that day for the first time," said Ar- 
 thur, dreamil3^ "The extreme desolation of the flat-j 
 around me, now fading in the shades of evening, 
 stirred in my soul an overwhelming, strong desire. 
 I longed to be for ever far away from the abodes 
 of civilised men. and amongst the desert tents, 
 among the everlasting dunes. Though it seemed 
 solitary in the desert, also there were men and 
 homes. I desired to feel the blank, wide emptiness 
 of this weird world, so far way from that of the 
 intolerable cramping world which had so long been 
 mine. 
 
 "Remember that I was a disappointed man, who 
 had first fled to loneliness in bitterness of spirit. But
 
 V MIKAGE OF THE DESERT. 273 
 
 I was also an imaginative man, with dreams of free- 
 dom from the enforced restraint of civilisation. I 
 sought a simple state of life in the great desert, and 
 1 found it there. 
 
 "Although I am now used to the strange, 
 mesmeric influence of the desert, its wild, quaint 
 solitude and mysteries still greatly move me," Ar- 
 thur said reflectively. "For from this land of throb- 
 bing, fluctuating, quivering light and heat, these 
 children of the sun still drav\' their tranquil resigna- 
 tion." 
 
 An expression came into his face that quite trans- 
 figured it. A look so pitiful and tender, and so 
 mystical — an expression that betrayect the inner 
 soul of the man. It was a look of sweet and silent 
 abnegation. Arthur seemed to Middleton to possess 
 hitherto unknown depths of imagination, magnet- 
 ism, tenderness — and a subtle touch of mysticism. 
 
 "I have many strange beliefs," he said, "that 
 I had not before. Perhaps it is the influence of the 
 solitudes, and the wide wastes, that has turned an 
 unbiassed English mind to Eastern superstition. The 
 truth is, I think, that in these solitudes, one can 
 believe what one would find it difiicult, if not im- 
 possible, to believe in a life of civilisation." 
 
 "Do you believe the creed of the Arabs?" 
 "I believe at least a portion of their creed." 
 
 R
 
 274 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 A creed that is held with fanaticism — even 
 cruelty," said Middleton decisively. 
 
 ''Not so," the Solitary Sheikh said earnestly. 
 "He who has birth in the desert is an impenetrable 
 mystery to Englishmen. Though it appears to be 
 obscure and incomprehensible, the desert is as full 
 of meaning as of countless grains of sand. And 
 even in the women of the desert fatalism works." 
 
 "Do you believe that desert men can truly 
 read the future in the desert sand?" asked Middle- 
 ton. 
 
 "Many strange things exist," responded Ar- 
 thur gravely. "One day I visited a sand-diviner, 
 far off in the desert — one who reads one's past and 
 prophesies one's future in the grains of sand. As I 
 came upon him he was chanting weird words of 
 Arabic — and I saw him gazing out through the low 
 doorway of his hut upon the shimmering flats. He 
 was a great, gaunt Arab, one of the true desert men, 
 in whom there was a grandeur, though he was but 
 a savage, like the other Arabs." 
 
 ]\Iiddleton regarded Arthur, as he paused, with 
 affectionate attention. 
 
 "What did this sand-diviner read for you?" 
 "That my Kismet lies here in the desert sand," 
 he answered gravely.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 275 
 
 The dreamy look had left him. He stood in an 
 alert, awakened attitude. 
 
 "But when I questioned further, he gazed upon 
 me as on one who vainly questions unknown mys- 
 teries. 
 
 " 'Thou art still at heart a Frank, and therefore 
 an alien,' he said at last. 'Thou hast not yet 
 studied in the East — the people of the East. Thou 
 hast not studied in the desert solitudes. How. then, 
 shouldst thou learn such matters? They are hid- 
 den from the Unbeliever! First must thou believe 
 — then wilt thou understand.' " 
 
 ' ' And are you now a full believer of the faith 1 ' ' 
 asked Middleton. 
 
 "I simply accepted the faith of Islam as I read 
 it, with mj' own reservations," Arthur said. "I 
 was afterwards elected as their Sheikh of all the 
 Sheikhs. And thus I have it in my power to do 
 much good." 
 
 "I do not possess much knowledge of the Arab 
 character or faith," said Middleton. "But I under- 
 stand you are now practically an Oriental, that you 
 accept the religion of the Arabs, and that you imder- 
 stand the Arab point of view. You have gained 
 the same fashion of looking at things?" 
 
 "The pious trust and resignation of the faith- 
 ful is not as the reserved, more grudging resigna-
 
 276 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 tion of the Unbeliever — and it is not fitting that we 
 question too closely the ways of God in any faith," 
 responded Arthur gravely. "I think mere tenets 
 do not signify, if it be the root and groundwork of 
 all faiths that God is good." 
 
 "Even I am much affected by the cry of the 
 Muezzin, and the Call to Prayer," said Middleton. 
 
 "When first, in the city of Morocco, the plaint- 
 ive notes of the Muezzin's voice broke on my ear, 
 with its prolonged, sweet call, I felt a strange sen- 
 sation," Arthur said. "On the atmosphere it 
 floated from the minaret of a mosque close by, call- 
 ing the faithful to their prayers. It died away, and 
 was sonorously renewed again three times. 
 
 "Then, again, when in the desert, I saw the 
 Moslems turn their faces towards Mecca, fall upon 
 their knees, and bend their heads to pray. The 
 kneeling Arabs bowed their heads low to the sands 
 with ceaseless murmuring, their fingers fluttering on 
 the beads strung round their necks. 1 saw old men, 
 young boys, strong, fierce-eyed Arabs praying to- 
 gether, their white-robed figures swaying slowly to 
 and fro. Yet their fierce gaze did not soften with 
 the cry of Allah's name upon their lips. The moon 
 was rising over the palm-gardens ; the moon climbed 
 hi the sky, and threw a soft and silvery light upon 
 the scene. I stood beneath the palm-trees, looking
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 277 
 
 upon them, and felt no astonishment at finding" thai; 
 I did not shrink from these barbarians, proud child- 
 ren of the sun, and wind-swept deserts. Lookin;^ 
 round upon the praying Arabs, I felt I was at heart 
 as fatalistic as any one of them. Though as yet 
 I could not understand their tongue, they did not 
 seem like strangers. And, from, the first, I felt a 
 strong attraction for the Moslem faith," he added 
 thoughtfully. "Its quiet resignation and its fatal- 
 ism in a Avay appealed to me. Here I have had 
 ample opportunity to study, and discover for myself 
 its hidden inner meaning. 
 
 "I have received a priceless gift from the de- 
 sert," Arthur added thoughtfully. "In the sunrise 
 and the sunset — in the glowing sky, the misty, dis- 
 tant mountains, the palm-groves ; and, most of all, 
 in these mysterious, sweet solitudes. In the purple 
 outline of the hills I love; the fluctuating foliage of 
 the palms ; the rose-tinted glory of the West. And 
 in the whisper of the desert wind, as it sighs in the 
 night." 
 
 "The Arabs cherish an ingrained, barbaric, 
 proud contempt of civilisation," said IMiddleton, 
 musingly; "yet they say their prayers five times 
 a day in obedience to the order of their Prophet." 
 
 "For me they possessed a fanaticism and a 
 fascinating fatalism that I longed to understand.
 
 278 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 As the seeming idols of the Hindus are only sym- 
 bolic charms or mere symbols, and not gods, as 
 some believe — so behind it all I felt that to them 
 the ideal is higher than the merely material — for 
 see them at their prayers, their faces ever turned to- 
 wards the East and Mecca, and behind them all 
 the splendour of the setting sun." 
 
 "Theirs is a fatalistic mystery in which devo- 
 tion and indifference most strangely seem to 
 mingle," suggested Middleton. "Their faith ap- 
 pears to me to be a kind of mere fatalistic philo- 
 sophy. 
 
 'The moving finger writes; and having writ, 
 Moves on ; nor all thy Piety nor Wit 
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
 Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.' 
 To everything the Arab says, 'It is written' — and 
 takes it as a matter of course — an undisputed and 
 simply-accepted fact. ' ' 
 
 "This is my belief — this is the root and ground- 
 work of all creeds," repeated Arthur. "There is 
 but one God — and God is good ! To the believer 
 only are the good things of Allah given." 
 
 "The rain falls alike on the just and the un- 
 just," objected Middleton. 
 
 "But with a difference," replied his brother 
 gravely.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 279 
 
 "Kismet!" Middleton said thoughtfully. "Ar- 
 thur, what do you take to be the literal, true mean- 
 ing of the word?" 
 
 "It means Fate, and willing acceptance of and 
 patient resignation to that fate." 
 
 "You are, then, truly a Mohammedan at heart?" 
 exclaimed Middleton. 
 
 "Though the Arabs say I accepted the Law as 
 it is written, I have not actually embraced the full 
 tenets of the Moslem faith — neither do I conform 
 to all their usages. But the most fanatical of the 
 Arabs respect the reservations of the Solitary 
 Sheikh. Nevertheless, the solitudes of the desert 
 have given me a precious gift — that of belief. It 
 seemed to me almost as though I had mj'self re- 
 ceived some power to divine the future — and I am 
 always waiting — waiting — for the revelation of the 
 will of Allah." 
 
 "You are indeed as fatalistic as an Arab," said 
 ]\Iiddleton, in wonder. 
 
 "I am almost an Arab," replied Arthur gravely. 
 "From the first I had felt the glamour and wild 
 phantasy of the desert steal over me and invade my 
 soul," he added dreamily, in still, awed tones. 
 "All! since that hour I have known and under- 
 stood that feeling well. It was the weird and silent 
 desert call to me. And in a moment I understood.
 
 280 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 As I sat in the silence of the dunes, looking out over 
 the desert from my solitary tent, I could hear its 
 voice calling, for ever calling insistently to me. I 
 could hear it in the wind, the sunshine, and the air. 
 The strange, silent murmur of the desert— the cares- 
 sing murmur of the wind — the warm kiss of the sun 
 — the whisper of the palm-leaves the faint breeze 
 was stealing through. And in that which some- 
 times Cometh to me, borne on the wings of the 
 storm. 
 
 ''And then first I knew that the desert, in giv- 
 ing me a precious gift, had also taken something 
 away from me. jMy ancient dreams, my hopes — 
 and I felt awed — for in the waste we must forget 
 some things we. care for — and know nothing of them 
 any more." 
 
 "Were you not afraid?" 
 
 "No sense of apprehension came to me, for I 
 had no fear whatever of the desert, for I knew that 
 1 would come to know and love it well. I felt in- 
 spired; I felt a strong belief that in the desert lone- 
 liness I would learn more than I could learn at 
 home — for is not solitude the nurse of wisdom? And 
 then I suddenly seemed to understand the fascina- 
 tion it possessed for me. It was the call of the Desert ! 
 And I know, too, that I will obey the irresistible 
 last summons of the desert, when it comes to me!"
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 281 
 
 "You will be happy and content alone — alone 
 in the desert— now ? " asked Middleton, brokenly, 
 
 with intense feeling. 
 
 "Some inherent fatalism of my own still tells 
 me so, " said Arthur. ' ' Then remember my acquired 
 affection for the Arabs, and my love of solitude, and 
 of this simple life, lly word is law to the refrac- 
 tory tribes amongst whom I dwell," he added pre- 
 sently. "I am looked up to as a Prophet by the 
 Arabs. By some am actually believed to be de- 
 scended from ]\Iahomet, and my actions therefore 
 pass unquestioned. ' ' 
 
 "And what if question ever should arise — com- 
 pliance be demanded?" Middleton inquired, with 
 some anxietj^ 
 
 "I would die for my own reservations, for my 
 Christianity!" Arthur answered, sternly, an un- 
 wonted fire kindling in the depths of his calm eyes. 
 "But I hope yet to convert the Arabs gradually to 
 my faith. I live, I work, I wait for this, and for 
 the time to come !" 
 
 The expression in his face had quite trans- 
 figured it. There was a gentle smile in his eyes, 
 and a look half mystical, and half of intense, silent 
 abnegation. 
 
 "I am become a visionary," Arthur said again;
 
 282 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ''almost a believer of the Moslem faith — with reser- 
 vations — and I wish to teach my Arabs these." 
 
 Arthur spoke with feeling — even exaltation in 
 his tones. He turned his head towards the West, 
 and raised his hand. 
 
 "It will soon be time for evening prayer." he 
 said. "Lo, even now the sun is going down behind 
 the distant violet bank of the horizon. It is near 
 the hour for evening praj'er. Behold the swift 
 going of the sun!" 
 
 He walked with Middleton towards his house, 
 and entered it alone. He soon came forth again, in 
 one hand carrjdng a small, rich praying-carpet, in 
 the other a parchment copy of the Koran. 
 
 Out on the warm, clear air came presently his 
 long-drawn, sonorous call : — 
 
 "I testify that God is God!" 
 
 And with a sudden rush of passion came the 
 answer from the Arabs : — 
 
 "God is God— there is no God but God!" 
 Rapt, absorbed, the desert Arabs prayed around 
 the Great Solitary One, their Sheikh of all the 
 Sheikhs !
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The Solitary Sheikh was sitting under the palms 
 with Middleton and Cecil, in the warm glow of 
 afternoon, engaged in earnest conversation. 
 
 When Middleton had brought his betrothed to 
 him, he had gazed at her a little pensively. Then 
 he took her hand in his, with a grave smile. 
 
 "I felt an indefinable interest in you when first 
 v/e met," he said, "and when mine eyes first fell 
 upon your face. Of a surety, it must have been pre- 
 vision there would be some future bond betwixc 
 us!" 
 
 "I have heard much of you from John," said 
 Cecil; ''and I almost felt I knew you." 
 
 "Have you learnt anything more of the un- 
 happy Fetneh's fate?" asked Middleton. 
 
 "The Arabs think that Mahmoud Bey hath 
 surely taken her away with him. When they came 
 tu the mosque, they found signs he had visited it 
 recently — and the woman was not there." 
 
 "It is horrible to reflect upon the awful lone- 
 liness of Fetneh's death," said Cecil, sadly. "It is 
 that loneliness that seems most terrible. Hapless
 
 284 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Petneh ! Dying alone in that wild, dreary waste, in 
 the darkness of the ruined old mosque — a waste in- 
 habited but by the wild things of the wind-swept 
 desert! No loving eye to watch compassionately— 
 no friendly hand to comfort her with its warm 
 clasp." 
 
 "How ruthless seems the law that sets woman 
 thus apart from man amongst these white-robed 
 savages," said Middleton. 
 
 "Women are ever set apart by the men of the 
 
 East," Arthur answered sternly. "It is for them 
 a hopeless fate!" 
 
 "I believe," said Middleton, "there was a most 
 unusual romantic history regarding Fetn eh 's origin. 
 She hinted something of it in her talk with me." 
 
 "The grandmother of Fetneh was a foundling," 
 Arthur said; "who was adopted by the ruling 
 sheikh of the tribe. As the story ran, a sick Eng- 
 lishman arrived at the douar with a young child, 
 and, dying there soon afterwards, he left her to 
 the sheikh's care. On reaching early womanhood, 
 she was married to the eldest son of the sheikh, and 
 had one daughter, who was Fetneh 's mother. Both 
 Fetneh and her mother were permitted an unusual 
 amount of freedom from restraint; and this un- 
 usual treatment amongst the Arab women, as well 
 as the strain of the free British blood, accoiinted
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 28^^ 
 
 for their bolder temperament, and the superiority 
 of their position, as well as the unusual respect in 
 '.vhich they Avere held amongst the Arabs, who were 
 strangely proud of them." 
 
 "Uncle James is talking of returning shortly 
 to Algiers," said Cecil presently. 
 
 "I should like to go, but for one single reason. 
 For my quest here now is ended," added Middleton. 
 with a sigh. 
 
 * ' I will provide ye an escort to guide and guard 
 ye safely back to Algiers," said the Solitary Sheikh. 
 
 ''Will you not return with us to your own 
 l;md?" asked Cecil wistfully. 
 
 But Arthur shook his head. 
 
 "You will come one day, Arthur — if not with 
 us?" said Middleton earnestly. 
 
 "One day, perhaps, I may return — aye, when 
 my loved and chosen work here is accomplished — 
 not before ! Remain here with me yet a little while 
 — then will I set ye forth upon the way." 
 
 When the time for their departure came, Ar- 
 thur rode with them a little way, and as they 
 passed near the douar of Ahmed Bey, Cecil, paus- 
 ing, turned her head to take a lingering farewell 
 look behind her at the distant spot beneath the 
 palms where was Meshow's desert grave. 
 
 The Solitary Sheikh rode yet a little Avay with
 
 286 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 the departing caravan. As he grasped his brother's 
 hand at last to say farewell, he said to him : — ■ 
 
 "I know not whether we shall ever meet again. 
 This is a thing that I cannot divine. My best 
 desires go with ye, as my best hopes are yours!" 
 
 He paused a little while, still holding Middleton's 
 hand in a last, lingering, warm clasp. Then, with 
 a far-awaj' look he said: — 
 
 "Peradventure one day we may hap to meet 
 again — I may yet follow ye — but the time will be 
 long first — for my work here is not done." 
 
 He released his brother's hand, and, half-sigh- 
 ing, turned away. 
 
 He then appeared to hearken with intensity to 
 some far-distant sound they could not hear. Remain- 
 ing motionless in an attitude of deep, absorbed at- 
 tention. The sunlight falling on him brightened 
 his countenance. There was something even pas- 
 sionately attentive in his manner — something of 
 strained eagerness in his expression. Arthur's eyes 
 bad the far-off intentness as of one who listens with 
 every fibre of his being — every nerve on the alert. 
 They could only hear the faintest sighing of the 
 gentle breeze across the waste. Then the faint, 
 gradually on-coming noise, as of a strange, low rush- 
 ing wind came to their ears.
 
 MIRAGE OF THE DESERT. 287 
 
 "Hark!" Arthur said. "It is the last call of 
 the Desert. The Desert calleth me — I must obey 
 the summons! I may not stay — farewell! — away — 
 away ! ' ' 
 
 He turned his horse's head towards the distant 
 desert, and they stood watching him depart, with 
 deep feelings of regret. 
 
 "Look!" breathed Cecil suddenly. "There is 
 the Mirage!" 
 
 "It may be that Mirage is a mere reflection of 
 one's mind," said Middleton thoughtfully, as he 
 looked long after him. 
 
 Into the quivering haze rode the Great Solitary 
 Sheikh, in his white, flowing garments, on his milk- 
 white mare; disappearing from their view. 
 
 Seen for the second time in Mirage, riding 
 slowly into it the IMirage of the Desert! 
 
 FINIS.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The Daughter of a Soldier 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 COMMENTS 
 
 "There is a simple cliarm of narrative that will attract 
 many readers. There is much pathos and grace in many 
 scenes." — The Australian Christian World. 
 
 "The stories are nicely written." — Sydney Mail. 
 
 "These stories are nicely told. The language is simple 
 and suited to the themes — there is no extravagance in style 
 or superfluous use of figurative speech. The descriptions 
 are natural and realistic, and the conversations are couched 
 in pleasant colloquial words. The characters are carefully 
 delineated. There is a charm about them (the tales) which 
 carries one on to the end." 
 
 — The Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton). 
 
 "This is a bright volume of short stories which will 
 give the reader an hour or two of quiet enjoyment. The 
 writer touches life on many sides. Its humour, pathos, 
 heroism, and ethical aspects are pictured with much skill 
 and vividness. She evidently knows the stuff of which life 
 is made. Their various settings ai'e well laid, and cover 
 much of the high and low levels of everyday existence. 
 The style is easy and flowing and very readable." 
 
 — Queensland Figaro.
 
 "A volume of very readable stories. They are brightly 
 written. All through the volume, as story follows story, 
 there is much variation of scene and circumstance. With 
 much skill the writer weaves her plots." 
 
 — Queensland Country Life. 
 
 "Some of these stories make a person laugh, and others 
 make her cry. That means that the root of the matter is 
 in this author. She has, in a way, the dramatic insight, 
 and the dramatic power of presenting pictures." 
 
 — Sydney Morning Herald. 
 
 "They are vivaciously and carefully written, and show 
 considerable variety in subject and treatment." 
 
 — Town and Country Journal. 
 
 "Miss Littlejohn shows fertility of imagination in the 
 construction of her plots, and her writing is easy and 
 graceful." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "These earnest, picturesque little tales will interest 
 many a reader." — World's News. 
 
 "In the main, they indicate a literary ability above the 
 average." — Freeman's Journal. 
 
 "The stories are pleasantly told, and should be read 
 with interest." — A.A.A. 
 
 "Many of these stories 'find you,' and stir chords of 
 feeling in the heart, and some of the stories reach a con- 
 siderable level of ability. We have enjoyed reading these 
 stories, and we hope their reception will encourage Miss 
 Littlejohn to persevere in her literary efforts." 
 
 — The Presbyterian Messenger. 
 
 "They cover the whole gamut of pathos and humour, 
 and touch the springs of life at many points." 
 
 — The Watchman. 
 
 "The stories are directly and crisply told, and the dia- 
 logue is also extremely well managed and 'turned.' Lit- 
 erary constructive power is displayed in them. The con- 
 versations are natural and easy, and seem to flow without 
 any appearance of being forced." 
 
 — The Hon. Bruce Smith, K.C., M.P.
 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 A Lapse of Memory 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 COMMENTS 
 
 "The author displays some imagination and ability to 
 write narrative. — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "The author has a fluent pen, and expresses herself in 
 admirable prose. She has a pleasant and simple method 
 of telling her tales." — Adelaide Register. 
 
 "The author has many of the qualities of a good story- 
 teller. The construction is good; the conversations are 
 natural, and fall properly into place. Some of the scenes 
 are laid in Ceylon, a region of which the writer has ap- 
 parently actual knowledge." — Evening Post. 
 
 "A cleverly constructed, if somewhat improbable 
 tale." — Town and Country Journal. 
 
 "The story reveals some ingenuity." 
 
 — Australian Star.
 
 ■"Although the events therein recorded may appear 
 improbable, it has to be remembered that stranger things 
 have happened in real life. This tale is interesting. It 
 has some graphic touches descriptive of Colombo and 
 Kandy. The four remaining stories all make pleasant 
 reading." — Sydney Mail. 
 
 "A readable story by an Australian writer. A highly 
 romantic plot. Several interesting shorter stories are 
 added to the book." — Melbourne Age. 
 
 "The story is pleasantly told, and employs the time- 
 honoured loss of mental faculties caused by an accident, 
 in quite a new way. The author has evidently studied 
 her local colour well. The book is one that will be ap- 
 preciated by many readers." — World's News. 
 
 "It seems to us the best thing Miss Littlejohn has yet 
 done. The plot is of the most ingenious kind, and takes 
 the reader through an almost bewildering variety of ex- 
 periences (in France, in England, in Colombo)." 
 
 — Messenger. 
 
 "The reader follows the unravelling of the plot with 
 close interest, ending, as it does, in a thrilling love scene. 
 There are several other stories in the authoress's well- 
 known, attractive style. Miss Littlejohn has broken much 
 fresh ground in this volume, and it will add to her reputa- 
 tion as a writer of delightful stories, such as the reading 
 public always welcome with eagerness. 
 
 — Australian Christian World. 
 
 This collection of short stories, simply and naturally 
 written, by the author of 'The Daughter of a Soldier,' will 
 be sure of a welcome." — "Weekly Graphist." 
 
 — New Zealand Mail.
 
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