The night of the desert settled down, and still he paced.  The stars came up—­the stars by which he laid his course; and, finally, pacing, he came for the hundredth time to the tent’s front and stopped.

“Mistress?” he whispered.  There was no answer, “Mistress?” he called, and then, after an interval, the flies of the tent parted—­a white hand, and a whiter wrist, appeared, and a red oleander fell on the sands of the desert.

Abdullah was on his knees.  He pressed the flower to his lips, to his heart.  Kneeling he watched the flaps of the tent.  They fluttered; the laces raced through the eyelets; the flaps parted, and a girl, unveiled, stepped out into the firelight.  They stood, silent, gazing one at the other.

“You have been long in coming,” she said, at length.

There is no love-making in the desert.  Thanks to its fervent heat, love there comes ready-made.

“Yes,” said Abdullah, “I have tarried, but now that I have come, I stay forever;” and he took her in his arms.

“When did you love me first?” she whispered, half-released.

“When first I saw you, behind the green lattice,” gasped Abdullah.

“Ah, that green lattice,” whispered the girl; “how small its openings were.  And still, my heart flew through them when first you passed.  How proudly you walked.  Walk for me now—­here, in the firelight, where I may see you—­not so slowly with your eyes turned toward me, but swiftly, smoothly, proudly, your head held high—­that’s it—­that is the way you passed my lattice, and as you passed my heart cried out, ’There goes my king.’  Did you not hear it?”

“No,” said Abdullah; “my own heart cried so loudly I heard naught else.”

“What did it cry?  What cries it now?” she said; and she placed her cheek against his bosom, her ear above his heart.  “I hear it,” she whispered, “but it beats so fast I cannot understand.”

“Then,” said Abdullah, “I must tell thee with my lips.”

“Oh, beloved,” she whispered, “the camels will see us.”

“What matters,” he said; “they belong to me.”

“Then they are my brethren,” she said, “since I, also, belong to thee,” and with arms entwined they passed out of the fire-light into the purple of the desert.

* * * * *

When they came back, the hobbled camels were snoring, and the unfed fires were smouldering.

“Allah keep thee,” said Abdullah, at the door of her tent.

“And thee, my master,” said the girl, and the flaps fell.

Abdullah went slowly toward his own tent.  He stopped a moment by one of the lame camels.  “Thou broughtest her to me,” he said, and he eased the beast’s surcingle by a dozen holes.

He reached his tent, paused, faced the western horizon, lifted his arms, breathed in the sweet, cool air of the desert, and entered.