to me."

"Then they are my brethren," she said, "since I, also, belong to thee,"
and with arms entwined they passed out of the fire-light into the
purple of the desert.

* * * * *

When they came back, the hobbled camels were snoring, and the unfed
fires were smouldering.

"Allah keep thee," said Abdullah, at the door of her tent.

"And thee, my master," said the girl, and the flaps fell.

Abdullah went slowly toward his own tent. He stopped a moment by one of
the lame camels. "Thou broughtest her to me," he said, and he eased the
beast's surcingle by a dozen holes.

He reached his tent, paused, faced the western horizon, lifted his
arms, breathed in the sweet, cool air of the desert, and entered.

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,
s