Ali had spread a camel’s hide, had covered a water-skin with a burnoose for a pillow, and had left, near it, a coiled wax-taper and a box of matches.  Abdullah untwined his turban, loosened his sash, felt something escape him, fell on his knees, groped, felt a paper, rose, went to the tent’s door, recognized the invoice which the old man had given him, went out, kicked up the embers of the fire, knelt, saw that the paper was unsealed, was fastened merely with a thread, played with the thread, saw it part beneath his fingers, saw the page unfold, stirred up the embers, and read: 

“To Mirza, Mother of the Dancers at Biskra, by the hand of Abdullah.  I send thee, as I said, the most beautiful woman in the world.  She has been carefully reared.  She has no thought of commercialism.  Two and two are five to her as well as four.  She is unspoiled.  She never has had a coin in her fingers, and she never has had a wish ungratified.  She knows a little French; the French of courtship merely.  Her Arabic is that of Medina.  You, doubtless, will exploit her in Biskra.  You may have her for two years.  By that time she may toss her own handkerchief.  Then she reverts to me.  I shall take her to Cairo, where second-rate Englishmen and first-rate Americans abound.

“This is thy receipt for the thirty ounces you sent me._

“ILDERHIM.”

When Abdullah had read this invoice of his love, he sat long before the little fire as one dead.  Then he rose, felt in his bosom, and drew out two flowers, one withered, the other fresh.  He dropped these among the embers, straightened himself; lifted his arms toward heaven, and slowly entered his tent.

The little fires smouldered and died, and the great desert was silent, save for the sighing of the camels and the singing of the shifting sands.

THE MAN WHO KEEPS GOATS

I

The next morning broke as all mornings break in the desert, first yellow, then white, and always silent.  The air bore the scent of sage.  The hobbled camels had broken every shrub within their reach, and stunted herbage is, almost always, aromatic.

Abdullah gave no heed to the sun.  He who for ten years had been the most energetic man of the desert had overnight become the most nonchalant.  Like Achilles, he sulked in his tent.

At five o’clock Ali ventured to bring his master’s coffee.  He found Abdullah fully dressed and reading a paper, which he hurriedly thrust into his burnoose when he was interrupted.

“Your coffee, master,” said Ali.  “We have twelve leagues to make to-day.”

“Ali,” said Abdullah, “the night before we started I asked you who lived in the house with the green lattices—­the next house beyond the mosque—­and you promised to tell me in the morning.”

“Yes, master,” said Ali, “but in the morning you did not ask me.”