“‘This, also, is a good season for traveling?’ it said, and I spun on my heel to face it.  From the hood of a bernouse there looked out at me, pale and delicate still, the face of Madame Bertin.”

“In my bewilderment and my—­my joy, I caught at both her hands and held them for a moment.  She smiled and freed herself gently, and her eyes mocked me.  She was the same as ever, impregnably the same; stress of mind, sorrow, exile, loneliness—­they could not avail to stir her from her pedestal of composure.  That manner—­it is the armor of the woman of the world.”

“‘I came here on a camel,’ she told me, in answer to my inquiries.  ’On a camel from my home.  I understand now why chameau is a word of abuse.’”

“‘I am not very sure that the season is good for traveling,’ I said.”

“She shrugged her shoulders.  ’When one is acclimatized, seasons are no longer important.’”

“‘And you are acclimatized, Madame?’ I asked her.”

“She showed me the bernouse.  ‘Even to this,’ she said.”

“Across the slopes of sand, one could hear the engine of the little military train grunting and wheezing as it collected its cars, and the strident voice of a man cursing Arab laborers.”

“‘You go by that train?’ she asked me.”

“‘To Torah,’ I answered.”

“‘I also,’ she said, looking at me inquiringly.

“I said I was fortunate to have her company, and it was plain that she was relieved.  For I guessed forthwith that it was at Torah that Bertin was, and she knew that if my going thither were to arrest him, I would spare her.  I am sure she knew that.”

“It was a journey of a day and a night, while that little train rolled at leisure through a world of parched sand, beyond the sandhills to the eye-wearying monotony of the desert.  Sometimes it would halt beside a tank and a tent, while a sore-eyed man ran along the train to beg for newspapers.  Over us, the sky rose in an arch from horizon to horizon, blue and blinding; the heat was like a hand laid on one’s mouth.  I had with me my soldier-servant and a provision of food; there was something of both ecstasy and anguish in serving her needs, in establishing her comfort.  She talked little and always so that I stood at a distance from her, fenced apart by little graceful formalities, groping hopelessly and vainly towards her through the clever mesh of her adroit speech and skilful remoteness.  I was already fifteen years in the country, and fifteen years her inferior in those civilized dexterities.  But she thanked me very sweetly for my aid.”

“Another dawn, and we were at Torah.  A half-circle of dusty palms leaned away to one side of the place, the common ensign of a well on a caravan route.  The post was but a few structures of wood and mud, and, a little way off, the tents of the camp.  In the east, the sky was red with foreknowledge of the sun; its light already lay pale over the meanness of all the village.  I helped her from the train, and demanded to know whither I should conduct her.”