But surely, she mused, this could not be Mrs. Sin who towered so loftily above her.  Of course, how absurd to imagine that a woman could remain motionless for so many hours.  And Rita thought, now, that she had been lying for several hours beneath the shadow of that tall, graceful, and protective shape.

Why—­it was a slender palm-tree, which stretched its fanlike foliage over her!  Far, far above her head the long, dusty green fronds projected from the mast-like trunk.  The sun, a ball of fiery brass, burned directly in the zenith, so that the shadow of the foliage lay like a carpet about her feet.  That which she had mistaken for the ever-receding eyes of Mrs. Sin, wondering with a delightful vagueness why they seemed constantly to change color, proved to be a pair of brilliantly plumaged parrakeets perched upon a lofty branch of the palm.

This was an equatorial noon, and even if she had not found herself to be under the influence of a delicious abstraction Rita would not have moved; for, excepting the friendly palm, not another vestige of vegetation was visible right away to the horizon; nothing but an ocean of sand whereon no living thing moved.  She and the parrakeets were alone in the heart of the Great Sahara.

But stay!  Many, many miles away, a speck on the dusty carpet of the desert, something moved!  Hours must elapse before that tiny figure, provided it were approaching, could reach the solitary palm.  Delightedly, Rita contemplated the infinity of time.  Even if the figure moved ever so slowly, she should be waiting there beneath the palm to witness its arrival.  Already, she had been there for a period which she was far too indolent to strive to compute—­a week, perhaps.  She turned her attention to the parrakeets.  One of them was moving, and she noted with delight that it had perceived her far below and was endeavoring to draw the attention of its less observant companion to her presence.  For many hours she lay watching it and wondering why, since the one bird was so singularly intelligent, its companion was equally dull.  When she lowered her eyes and looked out again across the sands, the figure had approached so close as to be recognizable.

It was that of Mrs. Sin.  Rita appreciated the fitness of her presence, and experienced no surprise, only a mild curiosity.  This curiosity was not concerned with Mrs. Sin herself, but with the nature of the burden which she bore upon her head.

She was dressed in a manner which Rita dreamily thought would have been inadequate in England, or even in Cuba, but which was appropriate in the Great Sahara.  How exquisitely she carried herself, mused the dreamer; no doubt this fine carriage was due in part to her wearing golden shoes with heels like stilts, and in part to her having been trained to bear heavy burdens upon her head.  Rita remembered that Sir Lucien had once described to her the elegant deportment of the Arab women, ascribing it to their custom of carrying water-jars in that way.