That came in a pale cloud of sand, with a pale crowd of worshippers, those who had received gifts from the Desert’s hands and sought for more:  white-robed Marabouts who had found Allah in his garden and become a guide to the faithful through all the circling years:  murderers who had gained sanctuary with barbaric jewels in their blood-stained hands:  once tortured men and women who had cast away terrible recollections in the wastes among the dunes and in the treeless purple distances, and who had been granted the sweet oases of forgetfulness to dwell in:  ardent beings who had striven vainly to rest content with the world of hills and valleys, of sea-swept verges and murmuring rivers, and who had been driven, by the labouring soul, on and on towards the flat plains where roll for ever the golden wheels of the chariot of the sun.  She saw, too, the winds that are the Desert’s best-loved children:  Health with shining eyes and a skin of bronze:  Passion, half faun, half black-browed Hercules:  and Liberty with upraised arms, beating cymbals like monstrous spheres of fire.

And she saw palm trees waving, immense palm trees in the south.  It seemed to her that she travelled as far away from Beni-Mora as she had travelled from England in coming to Beni-Mora.  She made her way towards the sun, joining the pale crowd of the Desert’s worshippers.  And always, as she travelled, she heard the clashing of the cymbals of Liberty.  A conviction was born in her that Fate meant her to know the Desert well, strangely well; that the Desert was waiting calmly for her to come to it and receive that which it had to give to her; that in the Desert she would learn more of the meaning of life than she could ever learn elsewhere.  It seemed to her suddenly that she understood more clearly than hitherto in what lay the intense, the over-mastering and hypnotic attraction exercised already by the Desert over her nature.  In the Desert there must be, there was—­she felt it—­not only light to warm the body, but light to illuminate the dark places of the soul.  An almost fatalistic idea possessed her.  She saw a figure—­one of the Messengers—­standing with her beside the corpse of her father and whispering in her ear “Beni-Mora”; taking her to the map and pointing to the word there, filling her brain and heart with suggestions, till—­as she had thought almost without reason, and at haphazard—­she chose Beni-Mora as the place to which she would go in search of recovery, of self-knowledge.  It had been pre-ordained.  The Messenger had been sent.  The Messenger had guided her.  And he would come again, when the time was ripe, and lead her on into the Desert.  She felt it.  She knew it.

She looked round at the Arabs.  She was as much a fatalist as any one of them.  She looked at the stranger.  What was he?

Abruptly in her imagination a vision rose.  She gazed once more into the crowd that thronged about the Desert having received gifts at the Desert’s hands, and in it she saw the stranger.