“Yes, that is he; that is Melun,” answered Doolga softly.  “Is he not handsome, wonderful?  Why do you stare so?  Might not any girl love him?”

A little smile played round Silka’s lips.

“Yes, indeed, any girl might love him,” she answered.

“But not as I do—­no, never!  Oh, Silka, I cannot tell you how I love him.  More than the Nile, more than the stars, more than we have ever loved each other!  I have met him often when I went to draw water, and sometimes we have stayed together in the palm-grove.  I was so happy till father sold me to the Sheik; and now I must part from Melun for ever!  Do not make me, dear, darling Silka; do not send me to the Nile!” She spoke with increasing excitement, with passionate intensity.  She was close to Silka, and she laid one arm softly round her neck and put her face close to hers.  Such a beautiful oval face it was!—­the face that Silka loved:  as she looked at it, her heart melted within her.

“See, dearest Silka,” continued the other coaxingly, “you have nothing to do but to unveil before the Sheik; you are just like me, only a thousand times lovelier.  He will not want me then, but you.  You can say to our father:  As I am fairer than my sister, he will give you two more camels.  Father will be pleased with the camels, and I shall be left free to marry Melun.”

“But suppose I don’t want to marry the Sheik either,” said Silka, slowly stroking the curls of the sheepskin as she looked down upon it.

“But why should you not? he has flocks and herds; he will give you necklets and bracelets, and a camel to ride, and take you to the oasis?  Why should you mind?”

“It is late, Doolga.  Father will be returning soon.  Go, fill your urns at the well.”

“But will you promise—?”

“I can promise nothing yet.  Go, go, leave me, you must let me think a little.”

Doolga got up well satisfied.  She knew Silka had never refused her anything since they had first played as babies together in the sand.  Silka loved her.  Silka had never denied her anything.

She took her large earthenware jar, poised it on her shoulder, and went out of the tent into the hot light.  Silka lay on the sheepskin where her sister had left her, and turned her face to it, shaken with a storm of feeling that convulsed her slender body from head to foot.  She heard none of the cheerful sounds of life stirring round the tent; she heard only Doolga’s threat of the Nile, her passionate pleading for help.  Her face was buried in the sheepskin, yet she saw plainly in the wall of darkness before her eyeballs the figure of the Bishareen standing out against the pink light of the morning sky.  So it was Melun that Doolga loved!  And to Melun all her own passionate impulsive heart had been given through her eyes.  Had she not, morning after morning, gazed out through the square eyelet to catch a glimpse of him as he came from his tent, dressed in his snowy white linen