ber beads. It meant sunset and
the coming of a message. But the doves on the green tiled minaret of the
Zaouia mosque had not begun yet to dip and wheel. They would not stir
from their repose until the muezzin climbed the steps to call the hour
of evening prayer, and until they flew against the sunset the message
could not come.

She must wait yet awhile. There was nothing to do till the time of hope
for the message. There was never anything else that she cared to do
through the long days from sunrise to sunset, unless the message gave
her an incentive when it came.

In the river-bed, the women and young girls had not finished their
washing, which was to them not so much labour as pleasure, since it gave
them their opportunity for an outing and a gossip. In the bed of shining
sand lay coloured stones like jewels, and the women knelt on them,
beating wet bundles of scarlet and puce with palm branches. The watcher
on the roof knew that they were laughing and chattering together though
she could not hear them. She wondered dimly how many years it was since
she had laughed, and said to herself that probably she would never laugh
again, although she was still young, only twenty-eight. But that was
almost old for a woman of the East. Those girls over there, wading
knee-deep in the bright water to fill their goatskins and curious white
clay jugs, would think her old. But they hardly knew of her existence.
She had married the great marabout, therefore she was a marabouta, or
woman saint, merely because she was fortunate enough to be his wife, and
too highly placed for them to think of as an earthly woman like
themselves. What could it matter whether such a radiantly happy being
were young or old? And she smiled a little as she imagined those poor
creatures picturing her happiness. She passed near them sometimes going
to the Moorish baths, but the long blue drapery covered her face then,
and she was guarded by veiled negresses and eunuchs. They looked her way
reverently, but had never seen her face, perhaps did not know who she
was, though no doubt they had all heard and gossipped about the romantic
history of the new wife, the beautiful Ouled Nail, to whom the marabout
had condescended because of her far-famed, her marvellous, almost
incredible loveliness, which made her a consort worthy of a saint.

The river was a mirror this evening, reflecting the sunset of crimson
and gold, and the young crescent moon fought for and devo