of the Sands 
 
 'Frances Everard
 
 A Dauhter of the Sands 
 
 A NOVEL :.' :: :: 
 
 FRANCES EVERARD 
 
 NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD 6- COMPANY 
 
 1922
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, 
 
 PRINTED IN U. 8. A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I SAADA 1 
 
 II THE DECISION 13 
 
 III THE MAN OF DREAMS 27 
 
 IV THE SHADOW 49 
 
 V WHISPERING DEVILS 60 
 
 VI DESTINY 67 
 
 VII SHEIKH MEDENE 77 
 
 VIII A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 98 
 
 IX EL BOUIRA 113 
 
 X THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 123 
 
 XI THE SACRED CIRCLE 143 
 
 XII THE SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS . . 172 
 
 XIII THE CABLEGRAM 184 
 
 XIV THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART . . .203 
 XV THE MAN WHO WON . 220 
 
 XVI SEPARATION 240 
 
 XVII THE MAN BETWEEN 261 
 
 XVIII MUHAMMED BEY > . . 280 
 
 XIX GREAT POSSESSIONS ........ 287 
 
 XX GOD'S GIFT . . 300 
 
 2135400
 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS
 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE 
 SANDS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SAADA 
 
 JEANS, the Railsfords' odd man, and last of 
 a once considerable retinue of servants, was 
 just bringing the trap into the drive, when 
 Lance Railsford called him. 
 
 "I don't think Miss Medene will drive to the 
 station, after all," he said, glancing at the open 
 letter in his hand. "We shall probably walk by 
 the fields as far as Whitcombe, so if you take the 
 luggage and pick us up at Hugglecote . . . Wait a 
 moment, though we'd better hear what Miss 
 Medene has to say." 
 
 "As you wish, sir." Jeans led the mare towards 
 the house. "But the young lady will miss the 
 early London train, for sure, and " 
 
 The girl herself was waiting by the stone balus- 
 trading which edged the tiny terrace, for Redlands, 
 the Railsfords' pretty home, was quite an estate in 
 miniature, with its shrubbed paths, well-kept lawns, 
 and tastefully-laid-out flower-beds. Above the 
 
 i
 
 2 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 ceaseless murmur of the trees on the hill she had 
 heard neither Jeans' nor Lance's approach; her 
 dark eyes were turned wistfully on the mist- 
 wreathed valley backed by the jagged line of the 
 distant Welsh mountain*, and her thoughts were 
 far away. 
 
 She turned, however, as Lance hailed her, and 
 stooped to lift the small dressing-case at her feet. 
 
 "Is Jeans ready? I was getting a little anxious 
 about the time," glancing at the watch on her wrist. 
 "The train leaves Gloucester at 8.10, and it won't 
 do to be late." 
 
 Railsford smilingly relieved her of the luggage. 
 "Oh, bother the office, and* what the others may 
 say!" he returned good-naturedly. "You're going 
 by the ten o'clock. Jeans will pick us up at 
 Hugglecote. The post is in early for once 
 and this letter well', it just alters everything. 
 You haven't seen mother?" 
 
 Saada Medene shook a wealth of raven-black 
 hair. "She isn't down yet. It is still very early 
 only half:past seven. But I thanked her last night, 
 and said how much I had enjoyed the week-end. It 
 is very kind of her, Lance, to let me come so often ; 
 but over breakfast I made up my mind . . . this 
 must be the very last time." 
 
 He eyed her amusedly as she swung down the 
 drive in the wake of the departing trap. Then he 
 stopped to light a cigarette, and watched her 
 beautiful, troubled face over the flicker of flame in 
 his cupped hands.
 
 SAADA 3 
 
 "Saada, you're still turning over all we discussed 
 last night . . . telling yourself that because you're 
 my secretary it's not good for the discipline of the 
 London office that you should be here. It's all 
 nonsense, Saada: surely a man can have with him 
 the girl he loves, and as to what the rest may 
 think " 
 
 "Lance !" She regarded him steadily, her lips sud- 
 denly firm. I'm going to give you my answer now. 
 Last night you asked me to marry you. I almost 
 gave in. For hours I lay awake, turning each 
 point over. I've decided ... it would be an 
 an appalling mistake." 
 
 For one usually so impetuous, he took the 
 decision if decision it were very calmly. Some- 
 how, he felt, the letter, which as yet he had not 
 shown her, would make all the difference to her 
 final decision. 
 
 "An appalling mistake to marry the man who 
 worships you 1 , and whom you love! You'll con- 
 cede that, dear; you do love me?" 
 
 They had turned into the wide road, a silver 
 ribbon against the green shoulder of the hill. Be- 
 low them, emerald fields -of lush grass powdered 
 with moon-daises stretched to the rose-clustered 
 walls of Whitcombe with the stately spires and 
 towers of Gloucester gilded by the early morning 
 sun beyond. 
 
 Saada Medene set her hands on the stone wall 
 behind her, and faced Lance Eailsford gravely. 
 
 "I suppose I love you, Lance . . . though I'm
 
 4 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 not quite sure, because, you see" with a sad little 
 shake of her head "I've never really known what 
 it is to love any man . . . except, of course, my 
 own father. You've been ever so kind . . . and 
 very generous, too, since that day when . . . 
 when, without a friend in London, without any- 
 thing but a knowledge of languages, I asked you to 
 find me something to do. Since then. . . . well ! 
 you know what's happened. You have learned to 
 care, and perhaps I care, too. But I'm certain, 
 if ever you married me, you'd very soon regret." 
 
 "And why should I regret, sweetheart?" he re- 
 peated, taking from her long slender fingers the 
 flower with which she was toying, and tossing it to 
 the ground. 
 
 The girl's head was lowered, and the wide- 
 brimmed hat hid her eyes, deeply shadowed. "I've 
 already told you, Lance . . . because of my race 
 and blood. I'm a coloured girl, really though, 
 except for my name, few would ever guess so. 
 Still, the fact remains, my father is an Arab . . . 
 oh," looking up suddenly, her face exquisitely 
 flushed by the passion in her voice, "I'm not 
 ashamed! My mother well-, she may have been 
 European ... I do not know, but in any case, 
 you would have a girl of colour for your wife." 
 
 His fingers reached out and lingered on hers 
 caressingly. 
 
 "As if I care, darling ! Aren't you* all the world 
 to me? What does race matter? Isn't an Arab 
 as highly born as any English man or woman?
 
 SAADA 5 
 
 Weren't your people noble your father a sheikh, 
 a man highly honoured? And you you have all 
 the instincts and feelings of a white girl." 
 
 Saada smiled even* as she shook her head. 
 
 "My dear, eight years in French and English 
 schools haven't changed the colour of my blood. I 
 am, and always shall be an Arab girl." 
 
 "Yet your face is fair, your skin as white as my 
 mother's." 
 
 "That is nothing," she said resolutely. "There 
 are scores of white Arabs in Northern Africa, row- 
 mis, we call them, because of their partial Roman 
 ancestry. For a generation, here and there, the 
 white strain ig uppermost: I sometimes feel it is 
 uppermost in me. Apart from my dark eyes and 
 hair, I am, as you say, as fair as any English 
 girl. Yet the Arab blood remains " 
 
 "You believe that makes any difference?" he 
 questioned with swift vehemence. 
 
 "To you now? Perhaps not. But to others 
 . . . yes. Let me tell you. I have worked in 
 your office, Lance, for tv/o years. I haven't a 
 friend, except you. Why? Because I made no 
 secret of my birth or parentage. I admitted quite 
 frankly that I was an Arab, my father Sheikh Me- 
 dene, and my home in Tunis. You don't realize 
 what a barrier the colour-streak forms. Because 
 of my people, I am an outcast " 
 
 "Don't, Saada, don't !" His fingers pressed upon 
 her lips. The girl drew them away. 
 
 "It is true. Every one in the office looks down
 
 6 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 on me : they don't like working beside me. I had 
 resolved when I was asked to Redlands this week- 
 end, that it should be for the last time." 
 
 He nodded, but his voice had taken a masterful 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes! For the last time, dear: because you are 
 going to marry me. I won't hear any more ex- 
 cuses. You know you care for me : you can't look up 
 and say you don't love me." 
 
 Her lips began to quiver. 
 
 "I can't ! I can't ! I do care ever so much, and 
 that is why I want to go away . . . and never . . . 
 never see you again" 
 
 "Listen !" He held her wrists and drew her arms 
 to her sides. "There is no one in the world you 
 care for so much as you do for me?" 
 
 "No one except my father." 
 
 "And you think you could be happy with me?" 
 
 "Were I of your race and colour yes." 
 
 "Surely the risk is mine?" 
 
 "The risk is too great here, in England." 
 
 "Wait. If some of the people you have met look 
 down on you, it is because you are poor and un- 
 protected the way of the strong with the weak. 
 But as my wife " 
 
 "We should never be happy in England, Lance. 
 An Englishman with a native wife is always an 
 object of scorn." 
 
 "But in her own country?" 
 
 "Ah, then it would be different!"
 
 SAADA 7 
 
 "Exactly. You could be happy with me in 
 Africa?" 
 
 "I I think so/' she answered tremulously. 
 "Both you and your mother have been so very 
 kind " 
 
 "My mother thinks always of me, Saada." 
 
 "She would never consent to your marrying an 
 Arab girl." 
 
 Lance Railsford smiled as he unfolded the letter. 
 
 "On that score trust me. Saada, I am off to 
 Tunisia." 
 
 Her eyes grew suddenly round. 
 
 "To Tunisia? Oh, how wonderful!" 
 
 "It is wonderful," he said gaily. "You remember 
 Curzon sent for me a fortnight ago? I was asked 
 then if I would take a post in North Africa. Now 
 I've been offered one resident vice-consul at El 
 Bouira a growing frontier town. I want to take 
 it because the salary is good. I shall go only on 
 one condition." 
 
 "Yes, Lance?" her voice falling to a whisper. 
 
 "That you promise to marry me. We shall be 
 intensely happy out there under the sunny sky of 
 Africa . . . and no one will bother whether you 
 have Western or Eastern blood in your veins. Be- 
 sides, what does it matter? . . . You will have me, 
 and my love . . . always. Saada, will you come?" 
 
 For an instant she continued to look down, with 
 her sweet mouth a-quiver, her lovely face sadly 
 troubled. But the heart in her cried out for the
 
 8 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 deep, full measure of a man's love. She raised 
 her head. 
 
 "Yes, Lance," she said shyly. "If you want me, 
 I will come." 
 
 An hour later Eailsford w r as walking the odd 
 five miles back to his mother's home on Birdlip 
 Hill. He felt supremely happy and not a little 
 elated with his victory. Indeed, any man might 
 have felt proud of such a conquest. Saada Medene 
 was superbly beautiful. Perhaps he was in love 
 only with her physical loveliness : that is the thing 
 for which most young men, with a narrow ex- 
 perience of life, love women. If deeper and more 
 reverent emotions were lacking, Lance did not 
 realize it; always a creature of impulse and tem- 
 perament, having gained the point dearest and 
 nearest his heart, he was satisfied. 
 
 He broke into the drive whistling a love-song. 
 At last, it seemed, the Kailsford star might rise 
 again. There had been a time, long since, when 
 this Golden Valley of smiling land and prosperous 
 homesteads had stretched under Bailsford rule from 
 far-off Stroud to the fringes of the Malvern 
 Hills. But time had stripped them of one rich 
 possession after another, leaving the last of the 
 line with only a small house, a peevishly discon- 
 tented mother to keep, and a post in the Foreign 
 Office at six hundred a year. 
 
 He was in no mood for regrets, as he crossed 
 the tidy lawn towards the big cedar beneath which 
 his mother sat. She saw by the smile on his good-
 
 SAADA 9 
 
 looking, sunburned face that something eventful 
 had happened, and so far forgot her habitual gloom 
 as to relax the fretful lines of her mouth. 
 
 "Well, dear! What has induced you to take a 
 day off?" she asked, setting down her needlework. 
 "Why haven't you returned to town with Miss 
 Medene?" 
 
 Lance drooped on to the grass and linked his 
 hands about his hunched-up knees. 
 
 "Saada's gone back to square things up at the 
 office. I shall say good-bye to London at the end 
 of a week. I've just heard from the Foreign 
 Secretary." 
 
 "A new appointment at last?" 
 
 "H'm," balancing his hat on one knee and slowly 
 rocking his big form to and fro. "Something good 
 this time. We're going abroad." 
 
 "Oh ! Where? I hope it won't be a horrid, out- 
 of-the-way place. You know, Lance, I never could 
 exist without my creature comforts." 
 
 Kailsford laughed, not unfeelingly. 
 
 "My dear mater, creature comforts, as you call 
 them, would soon have been at a premium if this 
 hadn't come along. Six hundred won't keep Red- 
 lands going any longer, and " 
 
 "You ought to have married a rich wife. 
 There was a time when a Railsford " 
 
 "Never mind, dear," good-humouredly. "Things 
 are going to look up from now on. We couldn't 
 have stayed here, anyway, with debts hedging us in 
 all round. Redlands must have shared the fate
 
 10 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 of the Hall . . . and then you'd have spent the 
 rest of your days in Knightsbridge or Kensing- 
 ton. As it is, we're booked for Tunisia . . . and 
 Saada is coming with us." 
 
 The placid look on Helen Railsford's face 
 vanished. 
 
 "Saada? Whatever for? Surely you can do 
 without a secretary?" 
 
 "I might do without a secretary, because I don't 
 suppose the Foreign Office will let me run to one, 
 but I can't do without a wife." 
 
 "You are never dreaming of marrying her?" 
 
 She sat up very straight,, the light of battle in 
 her cold blue eyes. 
 
 The ghost of a smile played about the young 
 man's mouth. 
 
 "I am. Saada and I became engaged this 
 morning. We arranged everything on the way into 
 Gloucester. Curzon has given me the vice-consul- 
 ship at El Bouira. Saada will come out with us, 
 at any rate as far as. Tunis, where, of course, she 
 would put in some time with her father 
 
 "Lance, you must be mad." The blank astonish- 
 ment had not yet subsided. 
 
 "I am mad madly in love with her. I always 
 have been ever since she first came into my office. 
 You've known it all along, surely?" 
 
 Helen Railsford looked away. 
 
 "I never dreamed you'd be such a fool. I knew 
 Saada was useful to you, that her knowledge of 
 Eastern languages had helped you in your work."
 
 SAADA 11 
 
 "To the extent of getting me one of the plums 
 of the Service," Lance admitted with unusual can- 
 dour. "I should never have got El Bouira but for 
 Saada. Our engagement was inevitable." 
 
 "To a coloured woman ! It's monstrous. You'll 
 be a byword among all decent people." 
 
 He laughed a trifle uneasily. 
 
 "Oh, it won't be as bad as that. Saada isn't 
 black. You couldn't tell her from an English girl, 
 except that her hair and eyes are dark. Besides, 
 the Arabs are highly civilized at least the well- 
 to-do classes are and there's no one better born 
 in all Tunisia. Her father is a sheikh " 
 
 "Without means ; now living in a derelict palace 
 in Tunis. Well, I, for one, don't agree." She 
 began to gather up her work. "If you choose to 
 throw yourself away, when by waiting you might 
 have had every girl in the country at your feet " 
 
 "Waiting for what?" he asked, a contemptuous 
 sneer on his handsome face. 
 
 She swept the balls of cotton into her lap. 
 
 "Your uncle's death. He's on his last legs al- 
 ready. Who besides ourselves can he leave his 
 money to?" 
 
 Lance took out his case and tapped a ciga- 
 rette on the back of his hand. 
 
 "Well, considering that you and he are bitter 
 enemies, and he hasn't allowed me near him since I 
 left school, I don't see that his phantasmal three- 
 quarters of a million is worth bothering about. 
 No, mother, you won't move me. Saada is more to
 
 12 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 me than a very unlikely inheritance. I want to get 
 married; I've found the girl I love; she cares for 
 me, so that's all there is to it. Kedlands must 
 have been given up in any case ; at El Bouira I shall 
 have fifteen hundred a year more than enough to 
 keep you and a wife in comfort. We'll make a 
 holiday of the trip across the desert " 
 
 Mrs. Bailsford emitted a sigh in which discon- 
 tent, scorn, and surrender were equally commin- 
 gled. 
 
 "I suppose I've no alternative. But you know 
 my views . . . marriage to a girl with the colour- 
 streak means social extinction. You might have 
 waited ... to see if Uncle Hugh relents. There's 
 Norwiches and several hundreds of thousands for 
 some one . . . some day." 
 
 "It's the 'some day' which decides me !" laughed 
 Lance. "I prefer to take my happiness now." 
 
 Mrs. Kailsford, looking inexpressibly grim, be- 
 gan to move towards the house. 
 
 "I can't help saying you're a fool, my dear. Yon 
 might have had one of the finest seats in England, 
 a* position in society, a wife from the station to 
 which you belong. Instead, you chose an Arab 
 girl. Mark my words, Lanceyou'll live to regret 
 it." 
 
 For an instant he turned his mother's last phrase 
 over in his mind. It was rather curious : they 
 were almost the exact words Saada herself had 
 used. But, with youth, passion has often the 
 casting vote. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette 
 away and followed his mother into the house.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE DECISION 
 
 SAADA was quite happy in her engagement. 
 To Lance she felt that she owed all that had 
 come into her chequered life since the finan- 
 cial ruin of her father had taken her from an ex- 
 pensive English school and thrown her, friendless 
 yet full of courage, on a curiously hostile world. 
 
 It w T ould have been quite easy to return to Tunis, 
 to the shelter of Sheikh Medene's house. At first 
 Saada had been tempted to go; she felt for the 
 aged man, who had always shown her both a 
 mother's and a father's care, an affection which 
 mounted to a passionate adoration. Yet it was 
 this very devotion which kept her in England. 
 From a servant of the once noble house of Medene 
 she had learned of her father's great poverty and 
 of the secret struggle he had long kept up to main- 
 tain her education. This decided Saada; from 
 school she went to London, and from the first 
 found a staunch friend and ally in Eailsford, who 
 had given her employment. 
 
 Ever since, week by week, her hard-earned sav- 
 ings had gone to support the broken old man lan- 
 guishing amongst the decayed splendours of his 
 
 13
 
 14 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Tunisian home. And now Saada herself was re- 
 turning to him with the news of her engagement. 
 
 As she stood by the deck-rail of the magnificent 
 Transatlantique steamer, pulsing steadily south, 
 across the blue waters to the sun-kissed shdres of 
 Africa, she wondered what Sheikh Medene's atti- 
 tude would be. 
 
 Always he had shown a great and respectful lik- 
 ing for English people ; yet, from Kairouan to Cas- 
 ablanca, no son of the Prophet was prouder of his 
 Arab blood. Still, Saada had taken the step, not 
 unmindful of what it would mean to him. As 
 Eailsford's wife no longer would he need to bother 
 about her future ; rather, every penny that was her 
 own would go to care for him in his last days. 
 
 This, indeed, was the outstanding feature of her 
 unselfish nature, an intense and loyal gratitude. 
 She had shown it in the complete surrender made 
 to Lance's impetuous wooing. Because he had 
 been so good a friend, because his home had thrown 
 wide its door to" bid her enter in a land alien and 
 unsympathetic to her race, she had willingly prom- 
 ised to give the very most that any man could ask 
 of a woman. 
 
 As yet she did not quite understand him. At 
 times she doubted if he understood her. But com- 
 plete ingenuous frankness on her side had marked 
 every hour of the friendship which had brought the 
 passionate declaration of his love. When Saada 
 gave, it was characteristic of her to give with both 
 hands freely, unselfishly, without reserve. She
 
 THE DECISION 15 
 
 wanted to love Lance, to hold back nothing that 
 might compensate him for his devotion. 
 
 His mother was more of a,n enigma to a nature so 
 guileless as her own. There was about Mrs. Kails- 
 ford's attitude a restraint which, though it scarcely 
 bordered on hostility, yet at times suggested a 
 scornful dissatisfaction. Saada knew that her 
 Arab blood was the cau?se, and more than once, on 
 the journey across, she discussed with Lance her 
 willingness, for his mother's sake, to release him. 
 Lance however, stood firm. Of his own free will he 
 had made his choice, and no power on earth would 
 shake him. He loved her for her beauty, her sweet- 
 ness of disposition, her charm. Under the warmth 
 of his avowal the little cloud dispersed, and he was 
 perfectly happy when they arrived in Tunis. 
 
 Saada saw little of her father, for an early op- 
 portunity offered to get them comfortably to El 
 Bouira. One of the Transatlantique Company's 
 luxurious Pullman motors was due to leave on the 
 Saturday following their arrival and would take 
 them with all their baggage as far as Constantine. 
 
 She spent, however, three days in the once lux- 
 urious Arab house in the Eue Sidi Abdallah, still 
 beautiful with its marble-paved courtyard and pil- 
 lared doorways, yet stripped by the ruthless hand 
 of poverty of the many treasures which had 
 brought it fame. 
 
 Sheikh Medene, noble of bearing, with his long 
 white beard and kindly face, and picturesque in 
 his loose flowing robes, clung to her tightly and
 
 16 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 cried like a child at their parting. For all this, he 
 was happy; Saada had found a good husband who 
 would cherish and protect her: more, a man of 
 English blood. He gave them both his blessing, 
 and returned, light of heart, to the solitude of his 
 house. 
 
 At Constantine the difficulty of procuring camels 
 to travel the rest of the journey delayed them ; they 
 put up at the Company's hotel overlooking the 
 rushing torrent of the Rummell, and there in the 
 care of Monsieur and Madame Caret spent three 
 ideally happy days. 
 
 Lance meanwhile had pushed ahead with his 
 plans. He had heard of a house at El Bouira which 
 could be bought fully furnished when the present 
 tenant gave up a few weeks hence. There was a 
 church too, at the El Bouira, where he and Saada 
 could be married, and in the interval, a comfortable 
 hotel to receive his mother and his fiancee while he 
 was up-country learning the details of his official 
 duties. 
 
 Saada had just gone off to make purchases in 
 the souks when the mail arrived. Mrs. Railsford, 
 in a fever of excitement, found Lance in the blazing 
 sunshine of the terrace, settling terms with an Arab 
 camel-owner. He turned and saw by the unusual 
 pallor of her face that something was wrong. 
 
 "You must leave me out of your calculations, 
 dear," she said. "I must return at once to 
 England."
 
 THE DECISION 17 
 
 "Oh!" he muttered, turning on her a look of 
 blank astonishment. "What's happened?" 
 
 She flopped into a wicker chair and mopped her 
 face. 
 
 "Your uncle Hugh is dangerously ill. This 
 cablegram has been forwarded from Tunis asking 
 me to go to him." 
 
 "Of course you will go," he said slowly. 
 
 Helen Railsford's eyes were strangely bright. 
 
 "I must . . . for both our sakes. Whatever 
 happens, I for one don't intend to run the risk of 
 losing a fortune. You and Saada can go on to El 
 Bouira, and when everything is over, one way or 
 the other, I'll join you there." 
 
 Lance drew out his watch. 
 
 "Saada ought to be back long before this. How- 
 ever ... I suppose she will soon come." 
 
 An hour lengthened into two; the noon train 
 steamed eastward to Tunis, taking Helen Railsford 
 back to England, but still Saada did not come. 
 
 Railsford felt little uneasiness over Saada's 
 absence. Although Constantine is a rabble city, it 
 is French garrisoned and governed, well-built and 
 prosperous, with spacious roads and wide, open 
 squares. Of course, there was an Arab town of 
 narrow streets with overhanging houses, and 
 shadowed courtyards filled with idle men, but it 
 was hardly likely she would linger there with so 
 much to attract her in the fine modern shops of the 
 Place de Nemours.
 
 18 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Yet, indeed, it was the native quarter, with its 
 silent-flitting veiled women in rlilals of gauzy pink 
 and loose white dresses, and picturesque huddled 
 forms drowsing in a sea of sunshine, that delayed 
 Saada. In the shop of the armourer the previous 
 afternoon she had looked at a beautiful sheathed 
 dagger, richly damascened in silver and gold upon 
 the finest steel. Lance had loved it for the sheer 
 exquisite beauty of workmanship, but the price was 
 beyond him. 
 
 So Saada, with her big generous heart, had 
 nursed a secret Before leaving Tunis, Sheikh 
 Medene had forced upon her a tiny silken bag of 
 gold coin, which through long years, he said, had 
 been put by to form her wedding gift. To Saada 
 had come the sudden inspiration to spend some of 
 this money upon her sweetheart; almost guiltily 
 she had stolen away back to the souk of the metal- 
 workers. Her mission over, the strange lure of 
 the East came upon her in those thronged, tortuous 
 ways where men and women of her own flesh and 
 blood lazed life away, chattering, sipping coffee, or 
 squabbling among themselves over the .price of 
 a bargain. 
 
 Often enough, through the drear, cold days of an 
 English winter, she had dreamed of blue skies and 
 golden sunlight, of perfumed air and cool court- 
 yards where the splash of the fountains in marble 
 basins was the sweetest music in this land of per- 
 petual afternoon. 
 
 She was back again in the world of her childhood
 
 THE DECISION 19 
 
 ... in the shade of cream- washed walls painted 
 purple and red with bougainvillea and cluster 
 roses; and beyond, stately against the turquoise 
 blue, the square towers and needle-like mina- 
 rets of the mosques the same graceful, slender 
 daughter of the East, yet changed by her smart 
 London frock and French shoes, and the strange 
 Northern tongue that had become her own. 
 
 When she stopped before the bazaar of Hadji 
 Ahmed, the seller of perfumes, she asked' for 
 jasmine and musk and attar of roses in the 
 language of the rhoumi. Hadji' Ahmed leered at 
 her with his slumbrous brown eyes and gave her 
 change only for a fifty-franc note. 
 
 Saada's pretty nut-brown cheeks flamed. 
 
 "I must ask you to give me the correct money," 
 she said firmly. "I handed you a Bank of Tunis 
 note for five hundred francs. My purchases come 
 to thirty-five. You will give me four hundred and 
 sixty-five change, or I fetch a gendarme." 
 
 At this Ahmed rose, and gathering the loose folds 
 of his red silk ghandourah around him, hobbled to 
 the back of his shop and called in a loud voice for 
 Halek his son. A tall young fellow, brown of face, 
 and sensuous of lip and eye, appeared, and after 
 hearing his father's story, approached Saada with 
 a coaxing smile. 
 
 "Indeed, there is no mistake, lady," he said, 
 twirling his string of amber beads between his 
 fingers. "We have not taken so much as five hun- 
 dred francs this livelong day. Mohammed, the
 
 20 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Prophet, the Camel Driver and the friend of the 
 poor, bear me witness. Here is all my father's 
 money : if it pleases you, step inside and we will go 
 through it together." 
 
 Saada's dark eyes flashed as he pulled out the 
 drawer under the counter upon which Hadji 
 Ahmed had sat cross-legged when the purchase was 
 made. 
 
 "Indeed I will," she said, following the young 
 man briskly. "And though you give me back my 
 money see, here are your perfumes, I do not want 
 them -I shall still inform the police." 
 
 "That would be most unkind of the English 
 lady," Halek said, quietly closing the shop door. 
 "We should prefer to give all the money 
 back. . . ." 
 
 "I am not English," Saada flashed back. "I am 
 Arab, and it is a shame because you think a girl 
 is English to try to rob her." 
 
 The young man bent nearer, for in the low-ceil- 
 inged room hung with Persian and soft-toned mats 
 from Khordofan the light was dim the sole illumi- 
 ination the yellow flame from the Moorish lantern 
 hung from the raftered ceiling. The reek of a 
 scented cigarette oppressed the close atmosphere; 
 after the dazzling brightness of the hot afternoon, 
 Hadji Ahmed's little back room seemed to Saada 
 to belong to a far-away world. 
 
 "So you are native girl," purred Halek, taking 
 the crimson rose from behind his ear and holding it 
 caressingly under his thin, sensitive nose. "I like
 
 THE DECISION 21 
 
 native girl who spik English. You are pretty, too. 
 I see," his eyes lighting with insolent admiration 
 as he looked her up and down from the wealth of 
 dark hair about her face to the tips of her dainty 
 shoes, "you come from France or London to find 
 rich young man among your own people?" 
 
 Saada's small head lifted proudly, and eyeing 
 him contemptuously, she said, 
 
 "Will you please give me the five-hundred franc 
 note and let me go. I have to get back to my 
 hotel." 
 
 Halek glanced over his shoulder, and she could 
 not help thinking what a fine figure he made in 
 long silk robe and yellow turban. 
 
 "I am sorry you must wait," he said, his soft 
 voice tinged with regret. "See," lifting the hang- 
 ing that covered the middle glass door, "the shop is 
 closed. My father has gone to drink coffee in the 
 house of Choaib-el-Salim." 
 
 Saada picked up her purse. 
 
 "Thank you r I don't care to wait. I shall return 
 later with the prefect of police. Please stand 
 aside." 
 
 But the tall young man only smiled, his big form 
 interposed between her and the door. 
 
 "By the Prophet, I could not let thee go with- 
 out one kiss from those sweet red lips," he laughed. 
 "Come, I will caress thee as my sister . . . just 
 once, and you shall go away." 
 
 For a wild moment Saada felt her courage 
 streaming from her finger-tips. A coldness ran
 
 22 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 down her spine; she essayed to speak, but her 
 tongue clave to her mouth. She tried to put the 
 low ebony and nacre-topped table with its tray of 
 tiny gilt coffee-cups between herself and the 
 young man. Halek, however, merely laughed, and 
 reaching out as she cowered back, seized her slim 
 wrist, and, though she struck him smartly in the 
 face, his free arm encircled her waist. 
 
 He drew her close, knocking the table to the 
 floor ; the little cups shattered musically, and above 
 the noise rose her sharp cry, 
 
 "Oh, don't! Don't! Please let me go." 
 The scent of the crimson rose, gripped between 
 his teeth, sickened her as he lowered his face, no 
 longer dusky brown but flaming brick red; the 
 rose dropped and petalled against her bosom . . . 
 she screamed, this time with a shrillness that 
 pierced the curtained windows and broke upon the 
 quiet of the courtyard without. On the far side 
 of the wall a dark, misshapen mass woke dazedly 
 to life ... a bundle of tattered garments that re- 
 solved into the semblance of a man. He rose stu- 
 pidly, rubbing the torpor out of eyes steel-grey be- 
 hind their mistiness; the blinding light struck at 
 him less fiercely than that cry for helpr in his 
 mother- tongue. The great arms, bare and brown 
 as the dust in which he had lain, swung up and 
 gripped the wall; six feet of wrecked manhood 
 surged over the spiked top. He dropped with a 
 thud that shook the breath from him, but recover-
 
 THE DECISION 23 
 
 ing, swayed: across the sunlit court and reeled like 
 a drunken man against the door. 
 
 The woodwork splintered beneath his great 
 weight; the cry reached out again, and, driving 
 his immense fist through the panel, he snapped 
 back the catch and lumbered in. 
 
 Against the gloom the pallor of a girl's beauti- 
 ful but agonized face called to him; there was a 
 redness before his eyes, as, fastening a grip of iron 
 upon the broad shoulders of Halek, son of Hadji 
 Ahmed, he caught him up and threw him far across 
 the courtyard. The scream of terror as Halek's 
 battered body rose drowned the sobbing thanks 
 which Saada, with her small hands clinging to her 
 rescuer's shoulder, muttered against his breast. 
 She clung to him, weak and trembling; and hold- 
 ing her like a c'hild he moved towards the door. 
 
 In the path of sunlight that streamed from over- 
 head he halted, -staring about him uneasily, for 
 Halek's cries had drawn a full dozen of his fellow- 
 countrymen into the court. They crowded about 
 him, hidden knives flashing from the sleeves and 
 waistbands of flowing ghanddurahs. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, little lady," whispered the 
 big Englishman, patting her arm. "We're in a 
 tight corner, but I shall get you out. Take your 
 parcel and follow me." 
 
 Saada drew back, her frightened glance on the 
 throng moving towards the door. In the struggle 
 her hat had fallen to the floor ; her dress was torn
 
 24 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 and her abundance of thick hair flowed loosely 
 about her shoulders. To the man she seemed ador- 
 ably beautiful, so beautiful indeed . . . 
 
 "Quickly !" he said, and drawing her behind him 
 he pushed resolutely forward, aiming a terrific 
 blow at the first to bar his path. The crack of the 
 Arab's chin as he went down turned Saada faint; 
 she saw the blood and bit her under-lip to keep 
 back a cry of horror. 
 
 The Englishman blocked the door; she saw little 
 but the leer of fiendish faces and the glint of long, 
 curved blades : there was a second scream as Halek 
 went down again, his face almost unrecognizeable 
 by the dreadful blows which her rescuer rained 
 upon it ; then as a knife gashed his arm from wrist 
 to elbow he slammed the door to, and drew her to- 
 wards the stairs. 
 
 "Come ; there's only one chance to get out alive," 
 he muttered. "In the next street, across the way, 
 is the house of a friend. We may make it." 
 
 They ran through a number of low-ceilinged 
 rooms and by a short ladder reached the roof. 
 From the parapet he leaned down and picked her up 
 quite easily. He poised for the spring, jumped 
 far out and landed heavily on the roof of the oppo- 
 site house. 
 
 "This way without a sound," he counselled, 
 lifting a wooden trap. "Hark ! The street is fill- 
 ing. We cannot get away here. You feel quite 
 safe with me?" 
 
 "Quite," she whispered faintly, staring up at him
 
 THE DECISION 25 
 
 in the gloom of the walled chamber ... a terrible 
 figure in his ragged clothes. He set her upon a 
 ledge against the wall and drew the iron bolt below 
 the trap. Then tearing a strip from his tattered 
 jacket, he endeavoured to bind his lacerated arm. 
 
 "Let me do it for you," she said, rising and tear- 
 ing a length from the softer material of her dress. 
 "Oh, they have hurt you terribly !" 
 
 "It is nothing. One gets used to blood in these 
 parts. I am thinking of you . . . how to get you 
 out of this." 
 
 A deafening clamour filled the air. Natives 
 were flocking in from the winding alleys and tor- 
 tuous side streets. 
 
 "We should find them as thick as hornets if we 
 looked down from the roof/' he said, wincing un- 
 der the pain as her deft fingers drew the edges of 
 the wound together. "Yes! Give me a drink 
 but first take some yourself." 
 
 She took a metal bowl from the floor and held it 
 to his quivering lips. As he dropped back on the 
 stone ledge, for the first time she had a sight of 
 his face . . . once handsome and finely formed, 
 now dissipated and reckless looking. 
 
 "What's in there?" he asked suddenly, point- 
 ing to the long narrow parcel at her side. 
 
 "A dagger," she replied. "I bought it in the 
 souk, as a present for " 
 
 "Give it to me. We shall need it if they find 
 us here," he said roughly, and tearing off the 
 wrappings, threw them on tl o 'oor.
 
 26 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Is there no chance to get away?" she asked, 
 suddenly afraid. 
 
 "None whatever !" he returned with brutal frank- 
 ness. "You've got to stay here with me ... 
 until it's dark."
 
 CHAPTER nr 
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 
 
 SAADA tried, to suppress a shudder. The 
 fanatical screeches and the surge of feet on 
 the rough cobbles below; the sight of this 
 terrible figure with haggard and bearded face and 
 ill -kempt clothes huddled against the stone wall; 
 the long absence from the hotel and the dread 
 of not getting safely back filled her with 
 terror. 
 
 She was not by nature afraid. Struggling 
 against Halek alone she had shown a fine courage. 
 But there was something almost revolting about 
 this strange Englishman, prematurely old, wrecked 
 by the follies stamped on every line of his once 
 handsome face. 
 
 Now the murkiness had come into his eyes again ; 
 he regarded her with a scornful smile. 
 
 "Come ! I want you to talk to me/' he said in a 
 Voice curiously cultured for one so low down in the 
 human scale. "Tell me what brings you, an Eng- 
 lish girl, to an Arab house." 
 
 Her head lifted. 
 
 "I am not English. I am a native girl. My 
 name is Saada Medene, and " 
 
 "Nonsense," he retorted, almost rudely. "That 
 
 27
 
 28 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 won't do at all. You can't tell Forrester that tale. 
 By the by" drawing himself up quickly "that's 
 not my name, really. It belongs to a very great 
 friend and I speak of him so often, I get into the 
 habit of using it. You'll forget, won't you; my 
 name's Williams John Williams, so remember 
 that. What were we saying? Oh, I know!" 
 pressing his hand to his forehead in an effort to 
 remember ; "about your being a native. Of course, 
 it's all nonsense: you're an English girl; I knew 
 . . . directly I heard your voice. You'll excuse 
 me, won't you; I don't suppose I can offer one to 
 you?" 
 
 He took from the belt about his ragged shirt the 
 latter was open at the throat and showed an ex- 
 panse of broad chest and shoulder as burned and 
 sun-tanned as the mud-baked wall against which 
 he rested a small metal box. The lid flew back and 
 she saw a number of small black pellets, one of 
 which he took between a well-shaped thumb and 
 finger and eyed longingly before placing it in his 
 mouth. Then a sigli of intense satisfaction escaped 
 him, and leaning his head against the wall, he said 
 in a more conciliatory tone, 
 
 "I'm glad to have been able to render you this 
 service. You won't forget what I told you, though 
 . . . about my name. It's Williams . . . not the 
 other which I mentioned. By the way, what did I 
 say?" 
 
 "I've almost forgotten," she answered nervously.
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 29 
 
 At that he laughed. 
 
 "You've almost forgotten. That's right. Now 
 we can talk as friends again. You'll forgive me 
 . . . for taking these things, won't you?" Again 
 he opened the metal box. "One has to, you know, 
 with a wounded arm. They help one to forget the 
 pain." 
 
 "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she 
 asked, struck by sudden compassion. 
 
 He shook his head, and a smile took all the 
 bitterness out of his livid face. Slowly his eyes 
 closed. 
 
 "Thanks! There's nothing you or any one can 
 do. I -Tm beyond help. Lots of people think 
 they can pull me up, when they find me here . . . 
 like this. God! How this arm hurts." 
 
 She went closer and knelt by his side. She 
 wished he would open his eyes. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like me to fetch a doctor?" 
 
 He laughed again, oddly she thought. 
 
 "Doctors can't do anything. I've seen lots of 
 'em. French and English, too. They know I'll 
 only go my own way. No, the cut isn't hurting at 
 all. I didn't say it was, did I?" 
 
 "I must try and find somebody." 
 
 He roused himself suddenly. 
 
 "If you go you'll never get out alive. Hark at 
 'em now . . . sheer devils howling for the life of 
 a pretty English girl. I thought you were an angel 
 when I saw you ... in that room. It's getting
 
 30 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 quite dark ; you won't be going yet. I I'm afraid 
 to be alone. I want some one with me. I want 
 you. ... I say you haven't gone? You're still 
 here?" 
 
 His hand reached out and touched her arm. Im- 
 mediately all fear vanished, and the woman in her 
 returned. 
 
 "Yes, I am here still," she said softly. 
 
 "Thank, God," he muttered, and then his chin 
 dropped to his breast, and he slid forward . . . 
 and slept as would a child in the arms of its 
 mother. 
 
 For a long time Saada sat thus, afraid to move 
 lest she should disturb the sleeper. About the 
 loose-limbed, ill-conditioned man in his torn, 
 thread-bare clothes, was something distasteful to 
 her sense of orderliness; yet there had been a look 
 on his face, a gleam of wistful appeal in his eyes, 
 which instinctively touched her heart. She remem- 
 bered, too, how magnificently, and with what reck- 
 less courage, he had fought on her behalf . . . 
 and the knowledge strengthened her to stand by 
 him as long as he needed her. 
 
 As he showed no sign of awakening, she released 
 him gently, then, creeping to the door, tried the 
 handle. It was locked! She stared about her 
 hopelessly. How long had elapsed since she first 
 went into Hadji Ahmed's shop she did not know. 
 The watch on her wrist, broken in the struggle, had 
 stopped. The damascened dagger on the crude 
 painted table her intended wedding-gift to her
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 31 
 
 husband was the closest reminder of the terrible 
 experience through which she had passed. 
 
 High up in the wall a tiny window, shuttered 
 and barred with a shield of ornamental painted 
 ironwork, admitted slender pencils of red-gold 
 light which lay in streaks of flame upon the Moorish 
 tiled floor. 
 
 Cautiously she drew the table to the furthest 
 wall. John Williams still lay in the shadows . . . 
 an inert mass. She looked at him and wondered 
 at the expression of ineffable peace upon his grey 
 lips. He muttered something and stirred in his 
 sleep; she caught the scarcely audible words, 
 
 "Williams not Forrester. Don't forget John 
 Williams." 
 
 As if she were likely to forget ! A surge of grati- 
 tude warmed her to this broken man, still young, 
 yet with the mark of years heavily on him. Her 
 trembling hands raised her to the table ; she looked 
 out and swiftly drew her scared face away, for an 
 angry mob still patrolled the street and fierce cries 
 suddenly broke the quiet of the drowsy afternoon. 
 They were hunting for her, or Williams or both. 
 She started as a voice came out of the darkness, and 
 glancing over her shoulder, she saw Williams rising 
 unsteadily to his feet. 
 
 "What are you doing?" he asked, laying a heavy 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 She looked up into his rugged face. 
 
 "I want to go back to my friends. They will be 
 getting anxious."
 
 32 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Of course!" He rubbed the sleep out of his 
 eyes. His voice dropped to a thoughtful monotone. 
 "You must consider them . . . but I must consider 
 you. Have I slept long?" 
 
 "About two hours, I should think." 
 
 He looked penitent. 
 
 "I am ever so sorry. Please forgive me. I felt 
 very ill. It seems unkind to keep you shut up with 
 me. Yet I dare not let you go. Listen ! You hear 
 that!" He raised his hand. "The heathen rage 
 ever so wickedly. Is that correct? I do not 
 know. It is so long since I read a prayer-book. 
 They scream to Allah to give them the blood of the 
 Christian dogs. Bah ! It was an unlucky stroke of 
 fortune that brought you here." 
 
 "You 1 don't think it would be safe to try 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I shan't let 3'0u. You are in my care. I am 
 responsible to your friends. Your blood would be 
 on my own head. God knows, it carries enough 
 already. You must trust yourself to me, till it is 
 dark and all is quiet. Then I can take you, by a 
 way I know, over the flat roofs and lead you right 
 into the Kue Liblane. You will be safe then." 
 
 "You are very kind." 
 
 His eyes shone. 
 
 "It is nothing only w T hat any Englishman 
 would do for one of his own countrywomen. But 
 
 . . let me think; how my memory fails me!" hold- 
 ing his hand to his forehead. "Didn't you tell me 
 you were a native girl?"
 
 33 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Yes. My name is Saada Medene . . . and I 
 am staying at the Transatlantique hotel on the road 
 out of the town looking towards the Rummel and 
 the El Kantara bridge. My father, Sheikh Medene, 
 lives in Tunis. I was born in Tunis." 
 
 He was looking at her in a dreamy, far-away 
 fashion, searching every line of her beautiful face 
 and form. 
 
 "It is strange. I see nothing of the native about 
 you. You are dark, but neither your hair nor eyes 
 are Arabian. No, it can't be; there is a mistake 
 somewhere. And your voice ... it is so typically 
 English ... I am sorry I interrupted you. You 
 would like something to eat." 
 
 "I am hungry and very thirsty," she admitted. 
 He fetched a derelict cushion from a dark cupboard 
 and set it on the ledge. 
 
 "Sit there. I can offer you both food and drink 
 of a sort. By the grace of God, and the generosity 
 of an Arab friend, to whom once I rendered a 
 service, I am allowed to live here. This," with a 
 wave of his hand which took in the uncarpeted 
 floor and bare walls, "is my home. You will take 
 a little wine?" 
 
 Saada began to feel more at ease. The rough, 
 almost brutish manner had gone, given place to an 
 old-time courtesy. He spoke and behaved like a 
 gentleman. There was unmistakable breeding in 
 every line, every movement of the ill-conditioned 
 figure as he crossed the room and brought from the
 
 34 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 cupboard a wine-jar, a glass and a box of crudely- 
 made native cakes and biscuits. She ate and drank 
 eagerly, hoped he would sha.re the frugal 
 meal. 
 
 He negatived the suggestion with a lift of his 
 hand. 
 
 "I never eat. Sometimes I take a little water. 
 My meat and drink are here," and he brought out 
 the tiny metal box. 
 
 Her eyes darkened. 
 
 "They are not good for you, I'm afraid," she said 
 chidingly. 
 
 At this he laughed. 
 
 "It is a form of haschish, Miss Medene. I should 
 die without it. But for once out of respect for 
 you I will forgo," and he slipped the box back 
 into the folds of his ragged shirt. As he stood 
 there, in the middle of the wretched room, the 
 westering sun fell upon his tired face. A slow 
 change came over it: the thin mouth gradually 
 lost its weakness; she saw the muscles of the lean 
 jaw flex and the grey eyes took on a brightness 
 denied them through many weary days. The big 
 capable hands rose and fell : he caught her curious 
 watching glance, and the long arms dropped to his 
 side. Then he took a step forward, and coming 
 to the ledge, sat down at her side. 
 
 "You've done more for me than I reckoned any 
 human had the power to do," he said gravely. 
 
 "Oh!" she answered, staring ahead into the 
 gloom. "In what way?"
 
 THE MAN OF DKEAMS 35 
 
 He bent his elbows on his knees and propped his 
 chin in his hands. 
 
 "You've helped me to remember ... I was once 
 a man." 
 
 Her voice rose on the strained silence. 
 
 "Once a man! What do you mean? You are a 
 very fine man to do all you have done for a de- 
 fenceless girl," 
 
 A bitter laugh escaped him. He took the lapels 
 of his torn jacket, and holding them, stared down 
 at himself. 
 
 "Look at me! Can you call me a man? ... A 
 battered, loathsome semblance of what I might 
 have been. A drug fiend . . . yes, that's what I 
 am; a horrid speck in the dregs of civilization 
 washed up by most mixed Oriental cities. Do' I 
 disgust you-, Miss Medene?" 
 
 She shook her head and regarded him with 
 melancholy. 
 
 "No, but you sadden me. Isn't there anything 
 I can do?" 
 
 His lips parted contemptuously. 
 
 "You ! You do anything for a piece of human 
 flotsam like me? There's not a soul under heaven 
 could lift me out of the slime . . . even if I wanted 
 to be lifted." 
 
 "But you do want to be lifted," she said earn- 
 estly. "You proved it, a moment ago, when you 
 put that dreadful box -away. You know ... I 
 will help you, if I can. Won't you . . . won't 
 you try?"
 
 36 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 In her sweet womanly sympathy she allowed her 
 white fingers to touch his shoulder. He drew 
 away as though the contact seared him. 
 
 "Don't!" he said thickly. "You make me feel 
 . . . ashamed." 
 
 Her voice was full of compassion now. 
 
 "Isn't it good sometimes to feel ashamed? You 
 are not happy like this." 
 
 "I was happy once," he said, looking up. "But 
 it was a very long time ago so long that until 
 you spoke of it ... I ... I had almost forgot- 
 ten. There was a time when I was like you 
 full of youth and strength. . . . My God, how good 
 it was to live!" 
 
 "Cannot it be good again?" 
 
 "No." The fine head with the matted brown 
 hair, flecked about the ears with tiny strands of 
 silver-grey, moved sideways. "The past is done 
 with. I shall go on to the end, sinking lower and 
 lower until ... I find forgetfulness. I try to 
 now: generally, my mind is numb and you you 
 are trying to make me remember." 
 
 "Only for your own sake," she said softly. 
 
 A slow smile crept up about his mouth. The 
 clearly-cut sensitive nostrils quivered ever so 
 slightly. He turned on her a haggard, pained 
 glance. 
 
 "It sounds strange to hear words of comfort 
 from the lips of a young girl. And yet . . . you 
 don't mind my telling you this?" 
 
 "Of course not."
 
 THE MAN OF DKEAMS 37 
 
 "It was a girl like you who brought me down. 
 Does that sound cowardly?" 
 
 "In a way yes/' she answered. "A man should 
 be the captain of his own soul." 
 
 "So you think!" He smiled bitterly. "A man 
 gives his soul to the woman of his choice ... at 
 least, I did, or I shouldn't be here now. Once I 
 was full of hope and vigour. Love was my life, as 
 perhaps it is yours." 
 
 "I don't know," she answered thoughtfully. 
 "Men and women have other things in life besides 
 love." 
 
 "Then they aren't in love," he flashed back 
 promptly. "I know now that I wasn't in love. 
 Three long happy years I thought I was. That 
 woman was the world to me. Then my luck 
 turned: my prospects went, and her affection 
 went, too. That was how I came to find myself." 
 
 His fingers began to move blindly towards his 
 vest. She closed them in a warm friendly clasp 
 and drew them away. 
 
 His glance met hers challengingly. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" he began . . . halted, 
 looked down and, breathing a deep sigh, relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
 "Would it be safe for me to go now?" she asked. 
 He looked up at the bars of light, touched with 
 changing hues of amber and tawny gold. 
 
 "Not yet. When the mueddin calls the last 
 prayer from the Djama Salah Bey, the big mosque 
 at the end of the Place Negrier, it will be dark.
 
 38 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 We shall hear him, * Allah Akbar, ayah sal at' you 
 know the words? 'Allah only is Great: there is 
 but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet. Allah 
 is Great.' Don't you say them every day?" 
 
 "Not now," looking him between the eyes. "You 
 see, I am a Christian. My father was Mahom- 
 medan. When I had been a little while in Eng- 
 land I felt the need to change my faith. In the 
 Christian religion I found something more satisfy- 
 ing than the beliefs of Islam." 
 
 "But surely your father " 
 
 "I told him when I reached Tunis a little while 
 ago. At first he was sad, but he said, 'What will 
 be, will be. It is Allah's wish.' I do not believe 
 I could have become engaged to an Englishman 
 and remained a Mahommedan." 
 
 "Then you are engaged ... to be married?" 
 
 His tone was quite passionless. 
 
 "Yes. I am staying with my fiance and his 
 mother at the hotel. His name is Railsford . . . 
 perhaps you hove heard it. He used to be in the 
 Consular service in Algiers." 
 
 Williams shook his head. 
 
 "I have never heard the name. What were we 
 saying when you talked about having to go?" 
 
 She rose and moved towards the window, look- 
 ing up at the interlaced woodwork. The fading 
 twilight painted the upturned face with a warm, 
 flushed rosiness that added to her wondrous 
 beauty.
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 39 
 
 "You were telling me about the sadness in your 
 life." 
 
 He stretched himself to the full height of his 
 magnificent stature and began to pace the narrow 
 room with slow, grave strides. 
 
 "It is nothing," he said, something of his old 
 recklessness returning. "The woman threw me 
 over, that's all. I became a bad egg, and have re- 
 mained one ever since. I drifted East, and you 
 know what that means to a man who has nothing 
 to live for." 
 
 "You have yourself," she rebuked gently. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Myself! What am I?" contemptuously. "A 
 scrap of human wreckage thrown up by the under- 
 current of an Oriental city. I stay here, in Con- 
 stantine, so that I may live as I shall die . . . un- 
 known." 
 
 Saada turned, and her face was lit by a sympa- 
 thetic smile. 
 
 "You- are not to think of yourself alone," she 
 replied, reaching up and laying her palm against 
 his shoulder. "Won't you believe that in me you 
 have a friend?" 
 
 He laughed in quiet derision. 
 
 "Yes! A friend whom I shall never see again." 
 Then, a change coming over him, "All the same, I 
 shall treasure the memory . . . and sometimes, 
 when I am tempted to sink 
 
 "But you are not going to sink lower," she said
 
 40 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 bravely. "You are going to make a great fight, to 
 win your way back again to the level of other men." 
 
 His hand closed over hers suddenly. 
 
 "I wonder is it worth while?" he questioned, 
 regarding her wistfully. "There is so little left to 
 build upon." 
 
 "And yet so much," she answered gravely. 
 "The sympath}' of a friend will help you. I will 
 stand by you; Lance will, too. He is ever so 
 good." 
 
 "The man you are to marry?" 
 
 "Yes. We are leaving Constantine shortly for 
 El Bouira. Won't you come to see us there? Per- 
 haps, if you want a helping hand, Lance would 
 find you something to do." 
 
 "Why should he?" the man asked. 
 
 "Because," she assured him, "you have done so 
 much for me. You saved me from something 
 ugh !" 
 
 "We won't talk about it. In a little while you 
 will be safe in your hotel." 
 
 "But you will come to see us?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 'Why do you say that?" 
 
 He spread his hands in a gesture of self-con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "How can I come as I am? No decent people 
 would want to know me." 
 
 "I want to know you. Won't you promise 
 
 "To try and give up this thing?" tapping the 
 belt at his waist.
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 41 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Give me your word. I know 
 you'll never go back." 
 
 "Don't you think so?" 
 
 Her eyes were shining with a serene light. 
 
 "I am sure of it. Something tells me . . . you 
 will win through." 
 
 For a long minute he was silent. Then he held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "I promise ... to put up a fight, little lady 
 . . . and if ever I do win through I will come to 
 El Bouira . . . just to show you that I have made 
 good. See, it is quite dark: in a very little while 
 you will be safely home." 
 
 Saada looked up. The advantage of his great 
 height had enabled Williams to raise the trap in 
 the low ceiling; she saw a square of purple sky, 
 hazy with the faint luminance of stars. 
 
 She smiled bravely, though the dread of the 
 unknown still lurked in the background of her 
 mind. 
 
 "You think it is quite safe to try?" 
 
 Long since she had lost all fear of him ; it seemed 
 quite natural to look to him for protection. 
 
 "As safe as anything ever is by night in the na- 
 tive quarter of an Arab town. It will require nerve 
 to jump from one roof to another. You aren't 
 afraid ... to trust yourself to me?" 
 
 She met his serious questioning with a steady 
 gaze. 
 
 "Haven't I trusted myself to you all this time? 
 Of course I'm not afraid. Why should I be?"
 
 42 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "I don't know," he answered awkwardly, as he 
 lumbered across the room towards her and looked 
 down sheepishly at his rough attire. "I'm hardly 
 the type to inspire confidence. May I lift you?" 
 
 An hour since she might have shuddered at his 
 touch. But time had brought an understanding of 
 John Williams; she knew that her sympathy and 
 faith had touched the man in him, and that for a 
 time, at any rate, the brute in his nature was con- 
 quered. 
 
 She made the slightest motion of assent and 
 stood quite still as his big brown hands caught her 
 by the waist. Then he raised her until her hands 
 touched the side of the trap and she was able to 
 draw herself into a sitting position. 
 
 "Can you manage?" she asked, watching his fine 
 figure moving to and fro in the gloom. 
 
 "Just give me your hand. Sit tight when you 
 feel my weight! So!" Her soft, warm fingers 
 closed on his : a surge of feeling swept through him 
 at the; touch; he fought it down, and leaping up- 
 ward, caught the ledge. A moment later they 
 crouched together on the flat roof, breathing heav- 
 ily with the effort of their exertions. 
 
 Her eyes smiled at him through the peachy blue- 
 ness of the night; he caught the white glint of her 
 teeth against the vivid scarlet of her lips, and a 
 self -satisfied laugh escaped him. 
 
 "I wonder what your people would think, could 
 they see us now\ I I almost wish . . . I'd never 
 met you."
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 43 
 
 She shook her head as she sat there, recovering 
 her breath. 
 
 "You shouldn't say that. I might, by this time, 
 have been dead." 
 
 "Or worse,'' he muttered thickly. "These parts 
 are no place fcr a white woman after dark." 
 
 "You forget" merrily "I am Arab." 
 
 "Of course." He passed his hand over his fore- 
 head and brushed back the thick cluster of dark 
 hair. "I so easily forget. Tomorrow, perhaps, 
 almost all you have been kind enough to say will 
 have gone from my mind. But I will try to re- 
 member I promised, didn't I?" 
 
 "You did indeed," she answered encouragingly. 
 "And when we meet again you'll have such won- 
 derful things to tell me. You will say, 'I haven't 
 fallen back! I've stuck to my guns, and I'm win- 
 ning through.' Won't that be splendid?" 
 
 He leant closer, a heavy mass against the sharp 
 whiteness of the parapet; the slight warmth of his 
 breath touched her cheek. 
 
 "Why why do you take all this interest in me?" 
 
 She looked up into the straight grey eyes, heavy 
 with pain. 
 
 "I I don't know. I simply can't tell you; un- 
 less it is ... you saved my life. Of course I 
 shall never forget that. Always I shall think 
 gratefully of you, and I shall hope that, very soon, 
 you'll be the fine strong man you used to be." 
 
 He laughed almost mockingly and shook his 
 massive head to the stars.
 
 44 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Good Lord, I'm as strong as a horse as a lion, 
 tonight. I could do wonderful things, if only 
 , . ." He checked himself and held out his hand. 
 "Come along," he said curtly. "I've kept you too 
 long already." 
 
 "Have we far to go?" rising. 
 
 "A goodish way. Some of the roofs adjoin. At 
 others there is a leap. No one takes the slightest 
 notice except when a guilty Arab takes this way 
 to visit his lady friends. Then, often enough, 
 there is a shriek in the dark, and later his body is 
 found sweltering in the sun. Life doesn't count 
 overmuch with them." 
 
 They moved forward, quickly putting several 
 streets between them and the scene of their first 
 meeting. A stillness had descended on the town. 
 Saada saw she was at a great height, and marvelled 
 until she remembered that the ancient city is built 
 upon a block of rocks rising perpendicularly nearly 
 a thousand feet above the surrounding countryside. 
 The restless murmur of the River of Sand added its 
 music to the hushed sounds of night life in the 
 native quarter, and afar off a crescent moon sil- 
 vered the rugged line of the distant mountains. 
 
 Beyond the sable windings of the ravine the cul- 
 tivated fields were darkened here and there by 
 olive groves. And against the blackness of one 
 they caught the white glint of a marabout's tomb. 
 
 "Your friends will be getting anxious?" 
 
 The man's cultured voice broke in upion her re- 
 flections.
 
 THE MAN OF DREAMS 45 
 
 "I'm afraid they will," she replied in a detached 
 sort of way. "My fiance will be wondering what 
 has happened. I left the hotel before noon, and 
 now " 
 
 "It is past eight, I'm afraid. However, you won't 
 be long now. This ladder leads to a courtyard 
 with an open door. Let me go first, in case you 
 stumble." 
 
 Once more she surrendered herself quite will- 
 ingly to his strong clasp, and allowed him to grip 
 her hand as he drew her into a narrow shadowed 
 passage. 
 
 "You had better leave me now," she said, as they 
 struck into the well-lit Place du Palais. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," he replied with grave deter- 
 mination. "You have a good mile to go along a 
 badly lighted road. I shan't leave you until you 
 reach the hotel." 
 
 Her eyes kindled. 
 
 "That will be splendid. I want you to meet 
 Lance." 
 
 "Who's Lance?" he asked abruptly, puckering 
 his brows. 
 
 "Don't you remember?" she said, "The man 
 I'm engaged to Mr. Eailsford. I told you . . . 
 when we were in that room." 
 
 Williams drew his wandering thoughts together 
 with a great effort, The effect of the drug had not 
 yet entirely vanished. 
 
 "Yes I do recollect . . . something. And 
 didn't you tell me you had been in England?"
 
 46 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Saada nodded. 
 
 "My father sent me to England to be educated. 
 To Paris first . . . then I was at school four years 
 in Tonbridge. After that I went to London." 
 
 "London," he repeated. "It seems ages since I 
 was there. How is it in these days? I haven't 
 been to England since before the war." 
 
 "I saw very little of it really." Her manner had 
 become grave. "You see, I had to work to keep 
 myself. My father lost all his money. He used to 
 to be one of the richest sheikhs in Tunisia. Then 
 misfortune came . . . and he lost everything ex- 
 ce"pt his house. I couldn't stay at school after that 
 so I just took the only job for which I was fitted. 
 I became a translator of Arabic for Mr. Railsford 
 at the Foreign Office." 
 
 "And now you are going to marry him?" 
 
 She was conscious of Williams' glance searching 
 her face. 
 
 "Yes," she said slowly. "We are to be married 
 almost as. soon as we reach El Bouira. I told you 
 that, too. Your memory is very bad." 
 
 "It is the wretched drug," he said heavily. "I've 
 brought myself to a terrible state. So," as though 
 repeating the words to himself, "you are to be 
 married very soon." The sigh that left him did 
 not escape her. "It seems strange you should 
 marry an Englishman." 
 
 "It is strange," she agreed. "And yet I don't 
 feel like an Arab. All my thoughts and inclina-
 
 THE MAN OF DEEAMS 47 
 
 tions are English. I suppose because I've lived 
 so long in your country." 
 
 "Will you ever go back?" 
 
 "I think so ... one day. Mr. Kailsford must 
 return to London before he takes up another post 
 elsewhere. One never knows where it may be 
 China, the Far East, Turkey. But I'm glad to be 
 back in North Africa again." 
 
 They walked the next quarter of a mile over the 
 dusty rise in silence. Williams had relapsed into 
 moody reflection. Something of the buoyancy 
 which he had shown in his squalid lodging had 
 left him; he walked heavily, as a man long denied 
 the power of sleep. 
 
 Saada's heart went out in sympathy. 
 
 "When you get back, promise . . . you will 
 rest?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I will rest," he said drowsily. 
 
 "Without touching the drug." Then, a fresh 
 thought striking her, "Don't you think you had 
 better give the box to me?" 
 
 "No," he said almost roughly, "it is mine. I 
 prefer to keep it." 
 
 She accepted the rebuff good-naturedly. 
 
 "Very well! This is the hotel. You will come 
 in " 
 
 "Thank you. I prefer to get back." 
 
 "But Lance " 
 
 "I have no wish to meet him, or any one ... in 
 my present state."
 
 48 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Please don't talk like that. You promised not 
 to be hopeless." 
 
 "Did I?" His manner softened as he caught her 
 pained glance. "I am sorry. Forgive," and he 
 held out his hand. 
 
 "Will you come before we go?" she asked. 
 "We shan't leave for a couple of days." 
 
 Williams drew himself to his full height. She 
 noticed the swift heave of the broad shoulders, the 
 squaring of the long jaw. 
 
 "If you don't see me you'll know I've gone under. 
 Then you needn't bother any more." 
 
 "If I don't see you I shall come and find you," 
 she said firmly. "I should know the house again. 
 So until we meet again good-bye." 
 
 A mysterious smile flitted over his face: their 
 fingers met in a warm clasp, lingered a moment; 
 then he drew away, and as a voice called to her 
 from the terrace he turned and swung down the 
 white dusty road.
 
 s 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 * """"'^ AADA, wherever have you been?" 
 
 Lance Railsford came swiftly across the 
 terrace, his voice edged with sharpness, as 
 peering beyond her he watched the tall figure of 
 Williams disappear into the night. 
 
 "I met with a most extraordinary adventure," 
 she said calmly. "To begin with, I lost my way 
 in the souks. . . ." 
 
 "To begin with," he repeated irritably, "you had 
 no business to go alone into the souks at all. You 
 know my wishes in the matter." 
 
 "But, Lance ^" 
 
 "Don't make excuses. You've no right to follow 
 your own sweet will regardless of other people's 
 feelings. It's a side -of your character which I 
 won't put up with." 
 
 She looked up coldly into his flushed, angry face. 
 
 "If you will only be reasonable " 
 
 He cut her short with a guesture of impatience. 
 
 "Be reasonable! Good Lord! Is it reasonable 
 for a girl to set off alone and wander at this time of 
 night through the native quarter . . . and then re- 
 turn, lamely excusing herself, in the company of a 
 
 49
 
 50 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 strange man? If this is what the return to your 
 beloved East means . . ." 
 
 His sniff of derision whipped a spot of angry 
 colour into her cheeks. She faced him, calm-eyed, 
 but secretly furious. 
 
 "I think, Lance, you forget yourself. At least 
 behave like a gentleman." 
 
 The rebuke sobered him. 
 
 "It's all very well for you to take the high hand. 
 I've had a most horribly anxious time. You left 
 before eleven. Half an hour later mother received 
 a cable calling her to England." 
 
 Saada's anger melted. 
 
 "Nothing serious, I hope, dear?" she asked in a 
 conciliatory voice. 
 
 He walked the terrace with quick, impatient 
 strides, every now and then glancing back along 
 the road which Williams had taken. 
 
 "Serious enough," he muttered brusquely. "My 
 uncle Hugh has been taken ill, and I suppose he 
 wants mother to nurse him. Haven't even heard of 
 him for years ; now, when he needs somebody " 
 
 "Lance, dear, you are in a very bitter mood to- 
 night. Don't be angry." 
 
 He glowered at her. 
 
 "But I am angry, so what's the use of denying 
 it? I had to help the mater scramble her things 
 together: she's gone, without your saying good- 
 bye to her . . . and, goodness knows, she's none 
 too friendly disposed to you as it is." 
 
 "What?"
 
 THE SHADOW 51 
 
 The words had slipped out almost before he 
 realized their significance. Saada was regarding 
 him with a hurt expression. 
 
 "Well, what I mean is," he equivocated, "she 
 never has been any too friendly, and now you've 
 absolutely offended her by going off on your own 
 sweet pleasure and . . ." 
 
 A great fear knocked at Saada's heart. All the 
 same, her voice was restrained. 
 
 "You have told me something you have never 
 mentioned before. Mrs. Railsford does not ap- 
 proave of me because of my Arab blood. Is that 
 what you mean?" 
 
 There was something in the perfect control of 
 voice and emotions that he began to feel afraid of. 
 Perhaps he had gone too far. . . . 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. You made me very angry, 
 and I spoke hastily," he replied in more concilia- 
 tory tones. "I don't care a button what other peo- 
 ple think or say. I want you for myself " 
 
 She stood full in his path, and the tall graceful 
 figure seemed suddenly to have added to its height. 
 Her brown hand came to rest on his sleeve. 
 
 "Wait a moment; don't go in just yet. I want 
 to talk to you." 
 
 "But dinner's ready. You must be tired and 
 hungry. The gong sounded half an hour ago," he 
 said, hedging unskilfully. 
 
 Saada forced the ghost of a smile. 
 
 "Thank you, I'm not hungry. I want to know 
 why you said . . . what you did a minute ago.
 
 52 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 You told me when we discussed this question be- 
 fore our engagement that your mother had no 
 objection to your marrying me. You know, 
 Lance," her voice suddenly becoming tender, "I 
 care for you well enough to release you . . . rather 
 than she should be unhappy." 
 
 The sight of her standing there in the moonlight, 
 the peerless loveliness of face and form, the subtle 
 perfume of her hair, the haunting sadness in her 
 dark eyes, swept the last shred of reserve away. 
 
 "Darling, don't talk like that!" he slipped his 
 arm about her with passionate warmth. "Yon 
 know I love you more than any woman in the world. 
 Only I was very angry : I do want to see mother and 
 you the best of friends, and this foolishness on your 
 part promised to raise a barrier, that's all. She 
 wasn't well pleased at going off without your 
 being there to say good-bye. Now tell me . . . 
 all that happened." 
 
 The girl drew a slow breath of relief. She 
 wanted to make Lance happy for all his goodness 
 to her. 
 
 "I met with an adventure. The first part was 
 decidedly unpleasant." 
 
 "Oh !" His mind flew back to the stranger. 
 
 "I was kept shut up in a room at the back of a 
 native bazaar. I went there to buy several things. 
 A young Arab tried to make love to me. He wanted 
 me to kiss him " 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 "I struck him. Then, when he took hold of me,
 
 THE SHADOW 53 
 
 I cried out, and an Englishman came to my rescue." 
 
 "By Jove, that's lucky! Who was he?" 
 
 She looked away, but the white ribbon of road 
 was deserted now. 
 
 "He told me his name was Williams ... a tall, 
 big fellow." 
 
 A derisive laugh left Kailsford. 
 
 "Oh, I've heard of him." His sensitive upper lip 
 lifted in contempt. "Williams, the dopey man of 
 Constantine . . . the biggest blackguard that ever 
 disgraced a fine name." 
 
 Saada winced at the scorn in Railsford's voice. 
 But just as quickly came the instinct to fight the 
 cause of the man who was down. 
 
 "I shouldn't like to call him a blackguard, 
 Lance," she said, a strange tenderness underlying 
 her words. "He may have been weak and foolish 
 s to give way as he has done. But I've seen an- 
 other side of his character, as fine as any man could 
 possess. The way he pulled me through was simply 
 splendid." 
 
 Railsford was idly caressing his close-clipped: 
 dark moustache, and still staring beyond her 
 towards the lights of the city twinkling on the 
 rocky crest of the hill. 
 
 "Well, what did he do?" he asked. "He appears 
 to have made a creditable impression on you." 
 
 The girl purposely ignored the scarcely-veiled 
 sneer. For the first time since she had known 
 Railsford she was experiencing a sense of repug- 
 nance.
 
 54 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "I wonder how you would feel if you had been in 
 my position at the mercy of a beast? John Will- 
 iams came and taught the fellow a lesson he will 
 never forget. A score of other Arabs heard his 
 shrieks and swarmed round us. Mr. Williams had 
 to fight his way through. He was as brave and 
 strong as a lion. I saw four men go down. But, 
 of course, he couldn't beat them all, so he took me 
 by a narrow little staircase to the roof, and shel- 
 tered me in his own room till night came on." 
 
 Railsford, regarding the cameo-like beauty of her 
 face against the darkness, was suddenly conscious 
 of a deep, uncontrollable jealousy. Another man 
 had obviously awakened an interest in her. 
 
 "I suppose he did what any other decent Brit- 
 isher would have done," he said w r ith cutting sar- 
 casm. "You can't imagine a white man allowing 
 
 "That is why I don't like to hear you speak of 
 him dear ... as you did," she remonstrated. "He 
 can't be such a blackguard. . . ." 
 
 He swung round sharply and she caught the 
 swift glint of anger in his eyes. 
 
 "I tell you, Saada, the fellow's an irreclaimable 
 brute, a public disgrace . . . and I don't want you 
 to have anything to do with him. Of course if a 
 sum of money would meet " 
 
 The blood rushed and flamed to the roots of 
 Saada's hair. She felt like giving Lance a good 
 shaking. 
 
 "I don't know what's come over you tonight, 
 Lance. You're not at all your usual self. Why
 
 THE SHADOW 55 
 
 insult this man because he has fallen? Don't you 
 think, if he had been the sort to repay with money, I 
 should have offered it? He asks nothing, wants 
 nothing but your sympathy and mine." 
 
 "Did he say so?" Railsford asked foolishly. 
 
 Her lip curled. 
 
 "Of course he didn't. But I understand men 
 well enough to know when a kind word, a friendly 
 look, means everything. John Williams promised 
 me ... to give up this drug-taking, and " 
 
 "My dear girl," he said, faintly amused, "I never 
 yet met a dopey man who wouldn't promise any- 
 thing. It's part of the disease . . . the exhibition 
 of maudlin sentiment which accompanies vows of 
 regeneration. Where does this fellow live?" 
 
 "In a room in the native quarter." , 
 
 "You would know the place again?" 
 
 "I think so. Why?" 
 
 "I should like you to go there now," he answered 
 in a self-satisfied way. "You would find this John 
 Williams ... by the by, that's only an alias; his 
 real name is John Brandreth Forrester, and he be- 
 longs to one of the best families in Leicestershire 
 . . . I've no doubt you'd find him dead to the world 
 with haschishj or whatever beastly stuff he takes, 
 about as unworthy an object of compassion as one 
 could find." 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I don't agree." Saada fell in at 
 his side as he slowly walked the length of the 
 terrace. Below them, the voice of the ever-swirling 
 Eummel was full of strange whisperings that
 
 56 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 stirred again the emotions Williams had awakened 
 in her. "My faith in him is unshaken, Lance. I 
 believe he will keep his promise to give up this 
 drug-taking and win through." 
 
 "And if he does?" 
 
 Lance eyed her critically. The moonlight showed 
 the sudden surge of colour in her cheeks and the 
 quick brightening of her eyes. 
 
 "I shall be very glad," she said, clasping her 
 small hands together. "I shall have the satis- 
 faction of knowing that I helped him that I made 
 some return for all he did for me." 
 
 Her sweetness swept him with a chill of shame. 
 How petty and how despicable his ungenerosity 
 compared with her bigness of heart ! He drew her 
 nearer. The warmth of her body against his own 
 swept the last of his bitterness away. With a 
 hushed murmur of passion he placed his hands 
 upon her shoulders and reverently lowered his lips 
 to hers. For a moment neither spoke; he looked 
 away as he saw the tears, swelling under the dark 
 lashes, break upon her cheeks. 
 
 "I'm ever so sorry. I was jealous." His manner 
 was penitent. "Something seemed to get hold 
 of me when I saw you two together. I watched 
 from the end of the balcony. I saw him take your 
 hand . . . and hold it. I thought he was going 
 to kiss your fingers. And when you looked up into 
 his face you were smiling ... as I remember you 
 smiled at me the night you promised to be my 
 wife. ,
 
 THE SHADOW 57 
 
 She pressed her warm palms against the back 
 of his hands and her eyes were filled with a great 
 longing. 
 
 "I want to see other people everybody just as 
 happy as I am." Her voice was vibrant. "I have 
 so much. God has been so good to me. My heart 
 is full. Lance, don't be bitter because it overflowed 
 to this poor human wreckage." 
 
 Railsford shook his dark head. 
 
 "Yes, that's what he is, I'm afraid a piece of 
 flotsam thrown up by the back waters of an African 
 town. There is no hope of salving him, really. 
 When he gets quite sodden he'll just go to the 
 bottom, and neither you nor I will ever find 
 him." 
 
 "We must! We must!" she said vehemently. 
 "I promised I would. Always I shall be ready to 
 put out a helping hand." 
 
 "But, sweetheart . . . next week we shall be in 
 El Bouira, and it's a thousand to one against our 
 ever staying in Constantine again." 
 
 "I know where he lives," she said thoughtfully. 
 "A letter from us will find him perhaps help him 
 ever so much when he's tempted to slip back. And 
 if you should meet him, I want you to be kind 
 because he risked his life for me." 
 
 A spark of generosity momentarily flamed in 
 Railsford's heart. 
 
 "I didn't realize it at first, Saada. I suppose I 
 ought to admit . . . this man gave you back to me." 
 
 "That's what it amounts to," she replied, sud-
 
 58 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 denly becoming practical. "But for him I shouldn't 
 be here now. You would never have seen me 
 again." 
 
 "Was it really as bad as all that?" in a hushed 
 whisper, and his clasp tightened. He caught the 
 swift rise and fall of her bosom as she laboured 
 under the remembrance of the dreadful experience. 
 
 "They were quite mad, Lance. Most of them 
 carried knives. One brute slashed Mr. Williams' 
 arm. I bound it up as best I could . . ." 
 
 He held her very fast, and his eyes were shining 
 "with the light of longing. Never before had she 
 seemed so desirable. The warm glow of passion 
 which her nearness always brought kindled to a 
 white heat of desire. This thought of hers for an- 
 other man was torture inconceivable. He hated 
 to think that those little brown hands had soothed 
 the drug fiend in his pain. His face was lowered. 
 
 "Dearest," he whispered, "you do belong to me 
 . . . every little bit of you?" 
 
 "Of course," she said, smiling up at him. "I've 
 never given you cause to feel otherwise." 
 
 "And you will always be the same?" 
 
 "As long as you love me, yes." 
 
 "You know I love you." 
 
 Her lips tried to frame the answer in her heart. 
 Deep down, a little fear was stirring, brought to 
 life by this revelation of a side of his character 
 hitherto unsuspected and unknown. Then she 
 said, very slowly,
 
 THE SHADOW 59 
 
 "I believe you do, Lance. Only sometimes" 
 her voice breaking "I feel afraid." 
 
 He put her a little away from him and regarded 
 her with a puzzled expression on his handsome 
 face. 
 
 "Afraid, dearest ... of what?" 
 
 But Saada could only shake her small head. She 
 could not tell whence they came, or what was the 
 nature of her fears. There is in the hearts of 
 women an instinct which affords them glimpses into, 
 the unknown.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHISPERING DEVILS 
 
 A WORLD of mud-baked walls whose sole 
 light was. the small high window through 
 which heat more than sun penetrated in a 
 perpetual drowsy stream that dulled the senses 
 and stifled hope; the drear drab world of John 
 Williams, once a gentleman. 
 
 He stared at it dully in the fitful glow from the 
 candle held in his shaky hand. A little hour of 
 life, born by the presence of a wonder-woman, was 
 gone; he was back again crushed by the walls, 
 stifled by the oozing heat, despairing in the great 
 moonlit silence. The guttering flame, as he set it 
 on the stone ledge upon which she had sat, smoth- 
 ered the bars of silver that struck from one wall to 
 the other. He stared at the ledge to him it was 
 an altar whereon lay the deadest of dead hopes. 
 
 Tonight had shown him a vision the vision of 
 a woman's heart and of a woman's love . . . not 
 the carnal affection of passion, but the love which 
 is so divine that it can reach down and lift from 
 the mire such vileness as he. He sank down, his 
 long legs crossed under him in the fashion he had 
 learned from the Arabs long years before, and tried 
 to fill the room again with her presence. The 
 
 60
 
 WHISPEKING DEVILS 61 
 
 attempt to recall her physical beauty, the glory of 
 hair and face and eyes, the graceful figure, was 
 a failure; but something finer, stronger, remained 
 . . . the music of her voice, the sweetness of expres- 
 ,sion, the wistful yearning of the glance bent on 
 him in hope. 
 
 Why should he think thus of her? Why think 
 of her at all? The folly of it struck him as incon- 
 gruous; he laughed derisively at himself, and the 
 hand that long had toyed with the box in his belt 
 lost its indecision. He snapped back the lid and 
 stared in dreamy fascination at the little heap of 
 black pellets. In each was wrapped the power of 
 forgetfulness . . . the pain of remembering what 
 and who he once had been. 
 
 Across the amber glow that lay upon the crude 
 tiles a shadow fell. He turned with a start, peering 
 over his shoulder, and his finger-nails drummed 
 shakily upon the lid of the box. It was closed now, 
 and the shadow gone. Whose was it, and whence 
 had it come? 
 
 He asked the question a score of times, pacing 
 his lone prison, and always cheating himself of the 
 answer. There was a gnawing in his body ; an ache 
 of soul, too, so grievous that solace lay only in 
 oblivion. Deep down within him something stirred 
 furtively ; under the sun-tan of his shrunken cheeks 
 a pallor crept till it whitened his face from brow to 
 chin. The breath of the drug glowed in his veins, 
 the voices of the whispering devils were already
 
 62 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 busy in his ears . . . the lid slipped back, the pellet 
 touched his lips . . . and at the touch the man in 
 him awoke. With a moan like the cry of an animal 
 in pain, he looked back and once more saw the 
 shadow on the floor; but even as he stared in 
 horrified amaze the dim lines faded: the nebulous 
 shape vanished and before him. stood Saada Medene. 
 He looked into a face radiant with a great love ; saw 
 her arms outstretched in pleading. The flame of 
 the candle guttered, went out, and across the white 
 streamers of light from the window hurtled the 
 small black box that had brought him to ruin. 
 
 With a groan of despair Williams dropped back 
 to the ledge and there sat like a figure carved in 
 wood, his mouth resting on his wrist. When, after 
 a while, he lifted his head and stared with childish, 
 expectant eyes at the crazy door, as if some power 
 could bring again the girl of his dreams, the marks 
 of his strong teeth showed against the sun-tan of 
 the skin. 
 
 The silence, the hopelessness of his position be- 
 came intolerable. He stood up, peering at the 
 window through which he had thrown the box; and 
 then, with both palms pressed against his eyes, he 
 began again that ceaseless pacing of his prison. 
 The craving for movement ebbed and flowed as the 
 desire for the drug alternately deepened and was 
 conquered. 
 
 At times he made unconscious movements with 
 his arms, sagging and reeling from one wall to an- 
 ^ther, and beating his clenched fists upon the hard,
 
 WHISPERING DEVILS 63 
 
 dry earth. This was his danger hour, and he knew 
 it ... the contest deliberately taken up for the 
 sake of one almost a stranger to him. In his eyes 
 Was a dreadful luminance : the torture fires of the 
 damned. His fingers brushed back the moist hair 
 from his clammy forehead ; it was wet with dew, yet 
 his lips were parched and burning. 
 
 For an hour the craving held him. With nothing 
 to aid but the remembrance of a woman's touch 
 and a woman's voice, he struggled on till physical 
 exhaustion drove him to the ledge again. But now 
 he discovered he could think coherently, frame 
 one thought after another from the moment of his 
 first meeting with Saada to the time when she had 
 clasped his fingers in farewell. The knowledge 
 came as somewhat of a shock. He laughed ... to 
 him it seemed a foolish laugh, knowing how many 
 leering devils the shadows held. 
 
 A girl's frail hand lifted him from the slough 
 of despond ; had tried to place his faltering feet on: 
 the first rung of the ladder that reaches to self-re- 
 spect again. A woman had done this, just as surely 
 as another woman had drawn him along the way to 
 destruction. To him the East had never been a trap 
 baited with irresistible allurements; he had taken 
 the path merely to find forgetting. Life was a 
 boomerang; it had recoiled on his own head and 
 brought him back to worse than the starting-point, 
 only with this difference: his mind and soul were 
 prompting him to think of a good instead of a bad 
 woman.
 
 64 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 The chain of reasoning was both warped and 
 illogical. Did it matter very much, so long as he 
 reached somehow the firm ground of his promise, 
 to try for her sake, as well as his own, to redeem 
 himself? Perhaps she had not said "for her sake" ! 
 Did that matter very much? He had been asked to 
 fight for a principle -ihe duty of man to cease 
 from defiling the image in which God had created 
 him. 
 
 Shocked by the realization of the depths to which 
 he had fallen, and to the height which he felt 
 within his power to reach, he poured water into a 
 cracked basin and buried his face and hands and; 
 arms in the delicious coolness. The night seemed 
 no longer hushed; the voice of the girl soothed 
 and caressed his ears ... he had; ceased to be 
 alone. He brushed his hair, replaced his jacket 
 and mounted unsteadily to the flat roof. There 
 was a glory of the moon as well as of the stars. He 
 felt both, and raised his arms to them, stretching 
 his gaunt frame as a giant who long has slept. At 
 its zenith the sickle of silver blanched the white 
 walls and threw shadows beyond the gently nod- 
 ding trees. Far from the city, across the quiet of 
 the fields where the night wind made a gentle mur- 
 muring, a dog, guarding the entrance to a Bedouin 
 gourbi, barked. Then came the shrill cry of a 
 jackal. He shivered and looked away. 
 
 Beyond the river glowed the lights of the hotel. 
 In the wonderful clearness of the air he made out 
 the balustraded balcony, and against it ... black
 
 WHISPERING DEVILS 65 
 
 shadows like the forms of a man and woman. His 
 mind pictured one of them as Saada Medene; did 
 she think of him as he was thinking of her? 
 
 It was an idle, useless thought, but tonight he 
 was in the mood to reflect on anything that lifted 
 him away from himself and what he had been. 
 There was the big invisible barrier the realiza- 
 tion she had forced upon him of his own falling 
 away. To keep that always in mind . . . 
 
 From the gloomy doorway of the street below a 
 young Arab in a flowing white ghandourah moved 
 leisurely among the garbage littering the cobble- 
 stones, and from the henna-stained flute at his lips 
 streamed a cadence of sweet sound. Williams 
 forgot the filth beneath his feet, yet marvelled that 
 such beauty could rise from a quarter so squalid. 
 Surely this should typify his future life: 
 
 Out of the depths a god did rise, 
 To tear death's veil from eyes 
 That long the darkness held. 
 
 He had read the lines in the original Greek in 
 far-off Trinity days, when life for him had been a 
 song. There came, too, a fragrant memory of 
 home ... of a grey-walled house, set in the midst 
 of a slumbrous countryside ; of summer days when 
 there was more sunlight than shadow on the fields 
 of golden corn, and a horizon faintly edged with 
 fleecy clouds. England far off, yet brought near 
 by his fleeting acquaintance with an Arab girl. 
 
 From one end of the parapet he moved to the
 
 66 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 other. The Roman and the Eastern city stretched 
 before him, proudly majestic on its impregnable 
 rock, scarred yet never shattered by its eighty 
 sieges. If rock could stand so much, how vastly 
 more the soul of a man lifted from its vileness by 
 the ennobling influence of a woman ! In the sweet 
 coolness he threw himself down on the blanched 
 stones, and the murmur of the distant river 
 soothed him to the peaceful sleep of an innocent 
 child.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 LANCE RAILSFORD found the Transat- 
 lantique Hotel at Constantine all that 
 could be desired. He revelled in the choice 
 cuisine, the bright, exhilarating company, the at- 
 tention to creature comfort which was Monsieur 
 Caret's special pride. Yet inevitably the time 
 would come when he and Saada must tear them- 
 selves away and start for El Bouira. The method 
 of travel promised difficulties; El Bouira lay off 
 the regular track beyond Biskra, supplied by the 
 Chemins de Fer Algerie and the excellent service of 
 the Transatlantique Pullman motors. The agent 
 of the latter company came to the rescue on hearing 
 that transport by camel across the desert had fal- 
 len through. 
 
 "We can place both a car and a commissaire at 
 your disposal," he said, mentioning extremely 
 moderate fees. "You will travel via Batna and 
 Biskra and complete the journey in five days." 
 
 Lance went back to Saada, delighted at this 
 good turn of fortune's wheel. 
 
 "This gives us four more days in this delight- 
 ful place," he said, as he joined her at tea on the 
 hotel terrace. "Time enough to send to Tunis for 
 
 67
 
 (68 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 your father and to get him to stay with you in El 
 Bouira until the wedding." 
 
 Saada was immensely pleased with the prospect. 
 The time with her father in Tunis had seemed all 
 too short, and now that Mrs. Railsford was no 
 longer there to chaperone her, it was essential 
 some one besides Lance should go with her on the 
 long journey across the desert. Accordingly, she 
 telegraphed to Tunis and received a reply saying 
 that Sheikh Medene would join her the following 
 day. 
 
 They were to leave on the Saturday, taking the 
 road beyond Ain Yagout, where Lance very much 
 wanted to see the remarkable Medrassen monu- 
 ment supposed to be the tomb of a famous Numid- 
 ian king, to Batna, the ancient rampart city of 
 the Third Augustan Legion, where the wonder- 
 ful Koman ruins of Lambaesis still stand, and so 
 through the beautiful mountain and valley scenery 
 of Oued-Ksour to the oasis of El Kantara. The 
 great plain of El Outaya beyond would bring them 
 round the corner of the last range of craggy 
 heights to Biskra, the Queen of the Desert. 
 
 To Saada the journey appealed immensely a 
 return to the scenes of her happy girlhood's 
 years. But before she left she wanted very much 
 to see Williams again. 
 
 Lance himself possibly to make recompense 
 for his unreasonable outburst had expressed a 
 desire to go with her to thank Williams for his 
 gallantry. Saada no longer felt afraid as they
 
 DESTINY 69 
 
 plunged into the network of cream-walled streets 
 heavy with the odours bred by every Eastern town. 
 Her terror had been confined to the small cur- 
 tained room in which Halek, son of Hadji Ahmed, 
 had dared to make love to her. 
 
 Memories which had haunted her since that 
 night flooded back as they probed further into the 
 labyrinthine ways which Williams had made his 
 home. Was it only the fickleness of a woman's 
 love that had brought him there, away from the 
 world of decent men, to the vicious haunts of the 
 Orient? She shuddered at the sight of impudent 
 painted faces, leering at them from cool recesses 
 made attractive with coloured hangings and tubs 
 of flowering plants. There were other places less 
 alluring, where vice in its naked reality was 
 flaunted without shame. Yet through it all her 
 tender womanliness felt more than pity for this 
 man sunk beyond the ken of his own people. 
 
 She hung a little more closely on Lance's arm 
 and turned a questioning face to his. 
 
 "I've been wondering, dear, if it would be pos- 
 sible for you to find something for Mr. Williams to 
 do. I'm sure, if only he could get away from all 
 this, he would be glad of any chance to stand on 
 his feet again." 
 
 Railsford shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "My dear, it isn't that I won't help the poor 
 chap. You'll find when you get to the heart of the 
 matter he won't let you help him. The last thing 
 those poor devils ever dream of is work. By the
 
 70 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 time a fellow's doped the best years of his life 
 away he doesn't possess enough backbone to sell 
 matches. Now where are we?" 
 
 Saada had stopped to take her bearings by the 
 tall square tower of the mosque of Djama Salak 
 Bey. 
 
 "That is the house over there. I know it by 
 the small square window in the top storey." 
 
 Lance nodded and went briskly forward to the 
 entrance a recessed door studded with copper- 
 headed nails beneath a horseshoe arch of carved 
 stone. It opened into a tiny patio with a balcony 
 supported by marble columns with Corinthian 
 capitals Arab loot brought from a Roman city in 
 the plains. A wizened little woman in a thread- 
 bare mahalfa, spotlessly clean, rose from the dish 
 of cous-cous which she was tending at a brazier, 
 and turned her face to the wall at sight of the un- 
 believers. 
 
 Saada stilled her fears by saluting her in her 
 own tongue, and the wrinkled features expanded 
 in a glad smile that one so beautiful and richly 
 dressed should have honoured her humble abode 
 with her presence. 
 
 "The blessing of Allah be upon thee and thine 
 for ever!" she mumbled, touching her forehead 
 with her hand and then kissing her finger-tips. 
 "May riches come to thee to the end of thy days, 
 and Mahomet the Camel Driver, the friend of the 
 poor, guide thee from the uprising to the going 
 down of the sun."
 
 DESTINY 71 
 
 "Great joy also to thee, O true follower of the 
 Prophet!" replied Saada. "It is an honoured 
 privilege that we may enter thy house." 
 
 Extravagant compliments having thus been ex- 
 changed, the woman drove the young kid and the 
 fowls from the combined living and bedroom, and 
 intimating that she was about to partake of her 
 evening meal, began to spread mats for them on 
 the floor. 
 
 Saada, however, got over the obligation by pro- 
 ducing a small wad of five-franc notes which she 
 pressed into the skinny palm. Then she said, 
 
 "We wish to see the rhoumi who lives at the top 
 of the house. Will you give us permission to go 
 up?" 
 
 The old woman shook her head. 
 
 "You have come too late. The Englishman you 
 seek has gone away. I am sad and afflicted, be- 
 cause he has been to me, so despised of men, almost 
 as a son. For the third time at the Feast of 
 Ehamadan has he honoured me with his presence ; 
 even as a son, according to the word of the 
 Prophet, honoureth his own mother. But two 
 nights since he shook from his feet the dust of my 
 dwelling, and Kamela will see him no more." 
 
 Saada kept back the sigh that rose involuntarily 
 to her lips. 
 
 "Do you know where he has gone?" 
 
 The other shook her head. 
 
 "Neither where he has gone nor why he went 
 away. He appeared in great trouble, sick both in
 
 72 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 mind and body. Because the hands of a woman 
 had touched his eyes, he was afflicted with great 
 misery." 
 
 Saada knew that Kamela was referring to her. 
 
 "You know, O daughter," she went on, "that for 
 many moons this unhappy Infidel had tempted 
 the wrath of Allah the Great One by taking that 
 which is forbidden both by the Mahommedan and 
 the Christian law." 
 
 "I know he took haschish" the girl admitted 
 unhappily, "but he promised never to touch it 
 again." 
 
 The aid woman looked wise. 
 
 "Does not the Koran say, O pretty one, that to 
 please a woman a man will lie to his god? Even 
 so has the rhoumi done to you. But stay: I am 
 unmindful* of my word to him who was like a son. 
 Is this your name?" and in the thin film of sand 
 that lay upon the courtyard flags at the entrance to 
 her dwelling, she traced with her finger in Arabic 
 characters the name of Saada Medene. 
 
 "I am Saada Medene," replied the girl. "Why 
 do you ak?" 
 
 The woman made no reply, but moved to the 
 high wooden bed with its corner-posts of red and 
 gold wood and its silken canopy surmounted by a 
 bevelled mirror beneath a flaming crescent. The 
 claw-like hands groped beneath the canopy, and 
 from the folds of gauze-like material she took an 
 envelope and on it was inscribed in a neat, firm 
 hand Saada's name.
 
 DESTINY 73 
 
 "He said that one day you would come," the old 
 woman muttered. "I was to give you this . . . 
 and when your eyes have read it the heart that is 
 in you will understand." 
 
 Railsford apparently took no interest in the 
 conversation. Having taken stock of the Arab 
 woman's room, he had found, in a cupboard-like 
 place without, the gaudily painted sepulchre of a 
 marabout or holy man, a fantastically crude ar- 
 rangement resembling an old-fashioned cradle 
 suspended between wooden supports. Evidently 
 the aged woman thought highly of the guest who 
 honoured her house with his dead presence, for 
 she had covered the coffin with a silk cloth em- 
 broidered in gold thread with verses from the 
 Koran. 
 
 "Don't bother any more about that fellow," 
 Lance called good-naturedly. "Come and look at 
 the last resting-place of a marabout. I don't sup- 
 pose you've ever seen such a thing before." 
 
 And then he checked himself abruptly, remem- 
 bering with a shock that Saada herself was of the 
 same race and blood as this revered son of Islam 
 who had found his last resting-place among the 
 goats and fowls in a backyard of Constantine. 
 Of late he had been prone to lose sight of Saada's 
 nationality; it had not struck him nearly as for- 
 cibly as when they were in England, probably be- 
 cause there it was a very uncommon thing to meet 
 Eastern people. 
 
 Apparently she had not caught his last remark.
 
 74 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 She came towards him, looking troubled, with John 
 Williams' letter in her hand. 
 
 "We shall never see him again. W T e've come too 
 late," she said gravely. 
 
 Kailsford's glance went to the sheet of common 
 paper, and he read, 
 
 "MY DEAR Miss MEDENE, 
 
 "When you get this I shall have gone. I tried to 
 continue the struggle but found it too much for me. 
 Something tells me that you will try to see me again 
 to test for yourself the sincerity of my promise. Hav- 
 ing failed, I find myself without the courage to face you. 
 
 "For your big unselfish effort to save me I thank you 
 most gratefully. Fate has been too strong: the help I 
 needed came just a little too late. Try to think of me 
 still with some compassion ; I shall treasure the thought 
 to the journey's end. 
 
 "Very sincerely yours, 
 "JOHN WILLIAMS." 
 
 "Well, that settles it. My prophecy is justi- 
 fied," exclaimed Lance, refolding the letter and 
 handing it back. "You can't help such people, 
 because they won't make an effort to help them- 
 selves. Tell the old lady if ever the poor chap 
 should show up again, we looked in to thank him 
 for all he did on your behalf; and if at any time 
 money will help . . ." 
 
 Saada turned away, her heart too heavy to say 
 more. She could not tell why Williams' failure 
 hurt her so deeply unless, of course, it was be-
 
 DESTINY 75 
 
 cause she owed her life to him. Under the pres- 
 ent stress of emotion she had no desire to analyse 
 her feelings. She left a gift of money on the Arab 
 bed and passed out into the busy life of the na- 
 tive quarter. 
 
 Straight-limbed, dark-skinned men and fat 
 women devoid of the veiling adjar slithered along 
 in heelless shoes; not a few turned their faces 
 to the wall as the accursed Christian denied the 
 air with his presence. A water-carrier, in filthy 
 rags, jostled Saada's shoulder with his bulging 
 skins, and a pock-marked man riding his over- 
 burdened ass edged her into the garbage of the 
 gutter. These were her people . . . and Williams 
 had fallen lower than they. 
 
 The blazing sun beat fiercely down and drew a 
 haze of mistiness over her eyes; the pulsing heat 
 and riot of movement, colour, and sound were 
 blotted out; she was alone once more in a bare- 
 walled room, clasping the hand of the man who 
 had saved her life. 
 
 She picked her way blindly at Lance's side 
 through the flocks of sheep and goats with which 
 the street was congested. A little crowd gaped 
 open-mouthed at a wandering story-teller in a 
 scarlet turban and blue bernous. Coins were fall- 
 ing into his grimy palm. At the entrance to a 
 cafe black-faced men from the South were beat- 
 ing on skin drums, and scantily-dressed, sensuous- 
 limbed girls were twisting their shining bodies 
 into the most amazing contortions. Yesterday
 
 76 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Williams had belonged to this life had formed 
 part of it; now . . . 
 
 She shut out the picture and was glad when 
 they struck into the clean sunshine of the Place de 
 Nemours. Somehow she was beginning to hate 
 and dread the East to which she belonged. It 
 was easy now to understand Helen Kailsford's 
 secret antipathy. She stole a sidelong, unquiet 
 glance at Lance's good-looking face. It was set 
 in contemptuous lines, the silent disapproval of 
 all that he had witnessed. Saada felt afraid lest 
 the happiness she had hoped to give him should 
 prove as great a chimera as her faith in John 
 Williams had turned out to be.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 
 
 IT was late, and Constantino gleamed and 
 scintillated like a jewelled crown against the 
 purple canopy of the night sky, when the 
 slow-moving train rumbled over the El Kantara 
 bridge and drew into the dimly-lit station. 
 
 Saada had driven down in the hotel motor to 
 welcome her father. As the faintly-illumined 
 carriages, packed for the most part with standing 
 Arabs and perspiring soldiers destined for the 
 Casbah, perched like an eagle's eerie on the high 
 point south of the town, flitted past, she caught 
 a glimpse of a round, good-natured face beaming 
 at her through horn-rimmed spectacles, and waved 
 her small hand to Yakoub, son of Abd-el-Hak, her 
 father's confidential servant and odd man. 
 
 She had known and loved Yakoub who de- 
 lighted more than anything else in his self-styled 
 English title of Yors Truley ever since she was 
 quite a small child. Sixteen years before, Sheikh 
 Medene, then a prosperous Arab, had bought the 
 man from a Bedouin caravan-owner who had 
 treated him cruelly, and on asking his name Ya- 
 koub had replied, with his fingers pressed to his 
 
 77
 
 78 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 forehead, "Yors Truley, my lord," and Yors 
 Truley he had remained ever since. 
 
 He lowered the window and let down an im- 
 mense armful of luggage. Then with much puff- 
 ing and blowing he waddled to the platform and 
 bowed low before his young mistress, his baggy 
 seroul causing him to look quite as broad as he 
 was tall. 
 
 "With rev'rince and much pleasureness, Yors 
 Truley, a wretched but fortunit child of the 
 Prohpet, salutes the daughter of Sheikh Medene his 
 master and a Great One of the Earth, yiss," he 
 said in a sing-song voice. "May Allah smile 
 kindly upon her and bring some one more worthy 
 than this worm to move the bagg-ages." 
 
 Saada laughed and extended her hand, which 
 Yakoub kissed. 
 
 "The man will see to the baggage, Yakoub. 
 Please take me to my father," she said. 
 
 But already Sheikh Medene, a frail little man 
 in a green turban and a white silken bernous, on 
 which gleamed a number of French and Tunisian 
 orders, was coming towards them. His faded, 
 kindly eyes lit warmly at sight of the young girl, 
 who kissed him first on each cheek and then on the 
 forehead, and in return he took her bare arm and 
 reverently raised it to his lips. 
 
 "Indeed, this is the great hour of my life, to 
 see thee once again, my dearest jewel," he said, 
 holding her a little way from him and regarding
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 79 
 
 her affectionately. "Your telegram came as a 
 most pleasant surprise." 
 
 Out of deference to her he generally addressed 
 her in English. 
 
 Saada led him to the waiting car. 
 
 "In a way, father, Mrs. Kailsford's leaving was 
 fortunate. I couldn't stay at El Bouira alone 
 with Lance, so he kindly suggested you should be 
 with me until the wedding." 
 
 The old man gravely inclined his head. 
 
 "That was a most kind thought. I reverence 
 him for thinking of an old man. Now tell me 
 you are quite happy?" 
 
 They were drawing down the long road to the 
 town, with Yakoub sitting up very straight behind 
 them, his arms folded after the manner of the 
 servants who attend his Excellency the Governor 
 when he drives through the streets of Tunis. 
 
 "Oh, quite!" the girl answered, after a short 
 pause. "Lance is very good to me, and I'm sure 
 we shall have a happy married life. But, father," 
 glancing up into the once-handsome face on which 
 age had set its seal in deep lines, "you are not 
 looking so well as when I left you in Tunis." 
 
 The kindly almond-shaped eyes took on a 
 shadow of sadness, the gentle mouth quivered. 
 
 "Allah the All-Wise and All-Powerful has de- 
 creed that these unworthy shoulders of mine shall 
 still be heavily burdened," he answered slowly. 
 "It is the price one pays in old age for the sins
 
 80 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 of youth. Through suffering alone the heart of 
 man learns wisdom. Let that pass, light of my 
 eyes; the French Government bears heavily upon 
 me for taxes. Ever I am becoming a poorer man." 
 
 She looked away, troubled. 
 
 "I only wish it were in my power to help. But 
 as the wife of a comparatively poor man I shall 
 be able to do but little to repay all your good- 
 ness to me." 
 
 "Dear child" the frail hand closed over hers 
 "I look for only one reward to see you happy. 
 My own trials are but the visitations from the 
 Most High. Could I but know that always a 
 smile will light on your face " 
 
 "Dear, I have found happiness. My husband 
 will be everything to me, even as I shall strive to 
 be all in all to him." 
 
 "But your husband's mother, of the shrewd 
 eyes and double-edged tongue . . . does she wish 
 you well?" 
 
 The colour drained swiftly from Saada's 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, I think so, father. Generally she is very 
 kind; though sometimes I imagine . . ." Her 
 voice was lost in the throaty roar of the car as it 
 toiled the rise. 
 
 "Well, what do you imagine?" asked the sheikh 
 insistently. The tired eyes had become in an in- 
 stant pin-pricks of flame. 
 
 "Perhaps it is hardly fair to say so, when she 
 is not here," the girl went on. "But I have
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 81 
 
 thought that she resents . . . her son marrying 
 a woman of another race." 
 
 "So! So! I had feared it!" sinking back 
 against the cushions. "The natural prejudice of 
 the West against all that is Eastern. Perhaps 
 it is inevitable; they are different peoples. Has 
 she said aught to you?" 
 
 To no one else in the world could Saada have 
 made the confession. 
 
 "Not to me, dear; but I fancy more than once 
 she has raised objections with Lance. I myself 
 went over all the ground, put every obstacle in 
 his way when he first proposed to me. I do 
 realize that there are vast differences between 
 the English and the Arabs; I realize that, more 
 and more each day, now that I am back again in 
 the land of my own people." 
 
 A sigh drifted from him. He averted his 
 glance and appeared to be watching the hurry- 
 ing night-life of the town. 
 
 Then, very gravely, he asked, 
 
 "Do you feel very much that these . . . are 
 your own people?" 
 
 Her head rose suddenly; she shot him a sur- 
 prised glance. 
 
 "Why, what a strange question to ask! Of 
 course, when I see the clear sky, the burning 
 sun, the colour and picturesqueness everywhere, 
 I know that I am back again in the land where 
 I was born." 
 
 "But the people the people?" he repeated.
 
 82 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 The slender shapely shoulders rose and fell. 
 The expression on the sensitive mouth presaged 
 a disavowal. 
 
 "I I must confess I am disappointed," she 
 said gravely. "To me they appear indolent and 
 dirty, with no desire in life but to sleep the hours 
 away. The girls seem to live only for love-mak- 
 ing and fine clothes; the men drink and smoke 
 and gamble from sunrise to* sunset. . . . Mind 
 you, father, I'm speaking only of what I've seen." 
 
 He looked troubled. 
 
 "I fear it is all only too true. Except for the 
 better classes, there is little real work done. 
 And does not the Koran rightly say, 'The hand 
 that goes not willingly to labour takes full toll 
 of soul-destroying pleasure?' This is the curse 
 which has fallen on our land since the rhaumis 
 came and took possession. We see their follies 
 and strive to imitate them; strong wine, for- 
 bidden by the Prophet, becomes our drink, and 
 eyes that once were famed through all the world 
 for brilliance now grow dim through this accursed 
 thing. . . . But we come back to the mother of 
 your future husband." 
 
 "She has returned to England to be at the bed- 
 side of a dying relative." 
 
 "True, true. But I am thinking is it possible 
 her son is sharing in secret the view she holds?" 
 
 Saada shook her small head. 
 
 "I am certain he does not. Lance made his
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 83 
 
 choice of his own free will after every objection I 
 could put forward had been raised. Once only 
 has he referred to his mother's attitude. . . ." 
 
 "So the seed is already there?" 
 
 She smiled confidently. 
 
 "I offered to release him. He will not let me 
 go." 
 
 "But in England when you return?" 
 
 "In England," she replied honestly, "I was made 
 to feel my position. People who knew of my Arab 
 blood looked down on me. Their doors were shut 
 in my face. For this reason alone I was glad to 
 return to Tunis." 
 
 "One day you will go back?" 
 
 Her lips trembled. 
 
 "I suppose I shall. Everything depends on 
 Lance's work. He might be posted to the Foreign 
 Office again. In that case " 
 
 "You will be at an unfair disadvantage." 
 
 "Why unfair?" she asked quickly. 
 
 Sheikh Medene stroked his white beard. 
 
 "I ought not perhaps to have said that. The re- 
 sponsibility is your husband's. If he loves you 
 for yourself " 
 
 "I'm sure he does. The difference in blood will 
 not count with him. Mrs. Eailsford's objections 
 such as they were he overruled: Ah, here we are 
 at the hotel ; you must be very tired." 
 
 The sheikh rose heavily on a gold-mounted cane. 
 
 "We will talk further of this another time
 
 84 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 before your wedding-day," he said enigmatically. 
 "Allah has been good to give me this chance of 
 seeing you before you go to your husband." 
 
 Railsford was standing in the vestibule beyond 
 the short flight of steps leading to the hotel terrace 
 when the car bringing Saada, Sheikh Medene, and 
 his servant drew into the circle of radiance cast 
 by the overhead lights. 
 
 A number of young fellows two from the Eng- 
 lish bank, one from the British Engineering Com- 
 pany of North Africa, and one attached to the For- 
 eign Office Intelligence Department had strolled 
 up from the town to smoke and chat an idle hour 
 away before dinner. 
 
 The hum of conversation between them ceased as 
 Yakoub, pompously self-important in his master's 
 interests, waved imperiously to the little group of 
 servants clustered on the steps. 
 
 "Now, fellahs yoh ; mak' way dah for one ob the 
 great wans ob dis earth, indeed. Get you some 
 carpet for set down; dis gravel am wet, and the 
 Sheikh ob Medene, inshallah, will mek de Pilgrim- 
 age agen, and say Fatihaho only for dem that 
 reckernize him greatness. This is the word ob 
 Yors Truley, humble servant to his mos' illustr'ous 
 master. Tek that luggidge, bye." 
 
 Yakoub jumped down amid a general flurry of 
 excitement and drove the hotel servants like sheep 
 before him to do his master's bidding. In his eyes, 
 Sheikh Medene was of more importance than the
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 85 
 
 Bey of Tunis, and just as important, to Yakoub, 
 was this unique opportunity to air his uncompar- 
 able English. 
 
 Purkiss, of the Credit Foncier d'Algerie, turned 
 to the aristocratic-looking man beside him and! 
 wrinkled his brows. 
 
 "Good Lord, Barville, what sort of circus is it 
 a page out of the Arabian Nights Entertainment 
 or a Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera? The old 
 gentleman looks as though he might have stepped 
 out of ancient Baghdad; the fat bespectacled boy 
 from the stage door of the Savoy . . . and 
 the girl . . . my God! she's pretty! Who is 
 she?" 
 
 Railsford, moving towards the entrance, caught 
 only the end of Purkiss' remark. He was in time 
 to hear Barville's reply, 
 
 "The lady must be Miss Medene, Railsford's 
 fiancee. The sheikh, I believe, is her father; isn't 
 that so, Railsford?" 
 
 Lance reddened. He had been careful to keep 
 Saada's nationality a profound secret. Yet some- 
 how an inkling of the truth had leaked out. Be- 
 fore he could put in a word the middle-aged man on 
 the edge of the group had taken Barville up. 
 
 "Nonsense, Sir Louis," he said in a guarded 
 manner. "That girl belongs to Constantine. I've 
 seen her myself in the native quarter. It's hardly 
 the thing, you know, to suggest Railsford is engaged 
 to a lady of colour." 
 
 Lance could no longer remain silent. As the
 
 86 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 sheikh came forward, leaning on Saada's arm, he 
 turned to his friends. 
 
 "I'm afraid you fellows must excuse me. Miss 
 Medene has been to the station to meet her father. 
 He is very old, and must be tired after the long 
 journey. Perhaps you will come along to dine be- 
 fore we go. What about Friday say at half -past 
 seven?" 
 
 Saada had been halted in the midst of a barri- 
 cade of luggage and was issuing orders to Yakoub. 
 
 Barville eyed her frigidly through his monocle. 
 
 "Sorry, Railsford, but I've promised to feed 
 young Rivington at the club on Friday." 
 
 "And I am leaving for Algiers by the morning 
 train," interjected Purkiss, lying easily. 
 
 The others excused themselves with equal clumsi- 
 ness. For the first time since his arrival in North 
 Africa Railsford experienced a sense of shame. 
 He had always half feared the fact of his being en- 
 gaged to a native girl would bring about social 
 ostracism, yet, now that he w r as faced with the fact, 
 the prospect alarmed him. 
 
 He bade his friends good-night, and turned away, 
 making no endeavour to introduce them to Saada. 
 
 Purkiss looked back and grinned over his 
 shoulder as Sheikh Medene greeted his future son- 
 in-law in truly Eastern fashion by kissing him on 
 each cheek. 
 
 "Shade of Hermes, but some fellows do ask for 
 trouble !" he muttered, falling in at Barville's side. 
 "I can understand his falling in love with the girl
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 87 
 
 no man with blood in his veins could help it ... 
 but as to marrying her ugh!" 
 
 "And to take on the family !" Sir Louis stared 
 blankly at his companion. "Would you dream any 
 fellow could be such an unutterable fool? And I 
 believe, too, he's got something of a position out 
 here." 
 
 "Not such a position as he'll have when his uncle 
 dies." Purkiss was official news-gatherer to the 
 little English colony in Constantine. "Thorburn, 
 of the Lyonnais, who was up with him at Cam- 
 bridge, told me only yesterday that when the old 
 man pegs out, Railsford comes into nearly half a 
 million, and one of the finest seats in the home 
 counties." 
 
 "And yet," scoffed Barville, pausing to- light a 
 cigarette, "he ignores the hundreds of nice' English 
 girls and commits the unpardonable sin of touching 
 the colour streak." 
 
 Purkiss looked serious. 
 
 "I feel more sorry for the girl than for him. At 
 least he goes into the business open-eyed; she 
 doesn't dream what's in store for her. Where are 
 they bound for after the marriage, I mean?" 
 
 Carew Hopson, who had hitherto kept silence, 
 broke in on the discussion. 
 
 "To El Bouira, of all places. He's going to be 
 the new Vice-Consul there . . . and of course, so 
 far as the English-speaking community is con- 
 cerned, it's about as select as it can be. General 
 Bravington's wife queens it; you can imagine the
 
 88 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 sort of reception an Arab girl married to an Eng- 
 lishman will get." 
 
 Barville shook hi's head. 
 
 "It's a mistake, a colossal mistake. I never yet 
 knew a case to turn out satisfactorily especially 
 when the man is in a public position. Either he 
 has to hide the woman away or clear out himself. 
 In this case ... I shouldn't blame him for stick- 
 ing to the girl. She is very beautiful." 
 
 Purkiss laughed. 
 
 "I'm afraid Railsford's not built that way. He's 
 lost his head and senses to a pretty face and fine 
 figure. When the edge of passion wears off he'll 
 make some excuse to get out of his bad bargain 
 . . . pension the old man to take the daughter 
 back with him to Tunis, or wherever he comes 
 from." 
 
 "For myself," interrupted Hopson, as they 
 struck down the high-walled road towards the 
 town, "I should say the girl's half English the 
 product of a mixed marriage, an Arab father and 
 a white mother." 
 
 "You can't tell," said Purkiss dogmatically. 
 "Because she lacks the slightly slanting eyes and 
 the Semitic nose of the true Arab is no criterion. 
 I've seen natives in the Kroumerie in Ain Dra- 
 ham, to be precise as fair as ever came out of 
 Devonshire. Descendants of the Romans, no 
 doubt; and at every fourth or fifth generation the 
 Western blood comes to the top. 
 
 Barville was thinking of sweet-faced Saada.
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 89 
 
 "Anyway, it seems jolly rough on the girl ; that's 
 all I can say." 
 
 And there the discussion ended. 
 
 Railsford, however, was almost as intimately 
 conscious as though he had been present. He had 
 caught the changed expressions of their faces, the 
 sudden frigidity of manner, scented the lameness of 
 the excuses why they should not meet again. The 
 thought haunted him for the rest of that night; 
 made him more susceptible than he otherwise 
 might have been to the surprised looks directed at 
 them over dinner by the other guests The raised 
 brows, the interchange of glances, the hush which 
 fell upon the diners when Saada, followed by the 
 sheikh in his flowing white robes and rich turban, 
 took their places at the table, told him more plainly 
 than any words that the sending for the old Arab 
 had been an act of colossal indiscretion. 
 
 He could not find it in his heart to blame Saada ; 
 he put the burden, subconsciously and unreason- 
 ably, on his mother, who had led him into such 
 an impasse. 
 
 Through the long formal meal Mbnsieur the 
 proprietor had taken great pains to get prepared 
 a special com-cous in honour of his distinguished 
 visitor Lance ate and drank hardly anything. 
 Instead he relapsed into a moody silence un- 
 affected by the unusual animation Saada displayed. 
 It was plain to see how happy she was at the oppor- 
 tunity of reunion with her father. Six long lonely 
 years had drifted since the sheikh, then a man of
 
 90 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 considerable substance, had sent her to Europe to be 
 educated. And when her school days were over and 
 Saada had intended to return to her beloved sunny 
 Tunis, the blow of financial ruin had fallen to keep 
 her in England. 
 
 By shrewd design rather than inadvertently Mrs. 
 Railsford herself had so arranged matters that their 
 stay in Tunis was short. Powerless to dissuade 
 Lance from his purpose to marry Saada, at least 
 she could so plan their journey from the coast to 
 El Bouira that there was little opportunity to asso- 
 ciate with the Arab family into which her son was 
 marrying. Now all these skilfully-laid plans had 
 been rendered void by Uncle Hugh, in his dotage, 
 sending post-haste for the sister whom he detested. 
 
 Altogether not a happy chain of thought, for a 
 young man of Railsford's temperament, consider- 
 ably susceptible to circumstance and environment, 
 to indulge in. To make matters worse, he showed 
 no desire to hide his feelings. To Sheikh Medene 
 a pattern of cultured old-world courtesy he was 
 stand-offish and guardedly supercilious. He sel- 
 dom interjected a remark unless directly addressed, 
 and then only in monosyllables. 
 
 At first Saada failed to notice his change of man- 
 ner, but as the time to leave Constantine drew on it 
 became more plain that Lance was already regret- 
 ting the step he had taken in suggesting the sheikh 
 should join them. Not having fully counted the 
 cost in loss of prestige among his own people, the 
 price was making its weight felt.
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 91 
 
 That afternoon, through the courtesy of M. Moray, 
 the Transatlantique's- resident agent, who had taken 
 unending pains to make their stay in Constantine 
 enjoyable, and, in fact, had gratuitously placed at 
 their disposal a car to visit all the sights in the 
 city" and neighbourhood, they had driven to the 
 Palace of the Bey el Hadj- Ahmed, a wonderful 
 example of Arab architecture enclosing four beauti- 
 ful gardens surrounded by handsome pillared gal- 
 leries. The sheikh had much admired the wonder- 
 ful show of orange and citron trees, and the party 
 were turning away when a message came from the 
 resident French general who occupied the gorgeous 
 ujfper rooms of the Bey's pavilion requesting that 
 Saada and her father, whom he had known years 
 before in Tunis, should be presented to him. 
 
 To this Lance took exception, and did not even 
 try to hide his ill-feeling. He had no wish to be 
 received by the general in company with an Arab, 
 even though the Arab might be a sheikh and person 
 of high degree ; he made an excuse to sheer off, and 
 Saada and her father went in alone. 
 
 The ebullition of ill-feeling was purely tempor- 
 ary, by the time the hotel was reached Lance had 
 put it almost out of remembrance. Saada, how- 
 ever, felt the slight deeply, but said nothing until a 
 late hour brought her and her lover to their custom- 
 ary good-night stroll on the hotel terrace. 
 
 Beyond the gravelled drive stretched rising 
 grass land where immense blocks of grey granite, 
 half -buried, told the romantic story of a once-
 
 92 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 proud Roman occupation possibly a temple to 
 Venus or Celeste, judging from the exquisite carv- 
 ing of the stones. 
 
 On the broken capital of one of these immense 
 columns Lance had seated himself and was idly 
 watching the play of light on the turbulent water 
 rushing through the ravine below. He felt instinc- 
 tively that Saada had waited for this hour, when 
 they should be alone, to speak of things she could 
 not mention in the presence of her father. He had 
 a vague, semi-repentant consciousness of guilt, of 
 having fallen away from those ideals of chivalry 
 and unselfishness which Saada always associated 
 with him. Secretly he felt mean : conscious of hav- 
 ing made a bargain which in some respects had 
 not quite fulfilled expectations, and because the 
 results had been somewhat different from anticipa- 
 tion, he had allowed her clearly to see his dissatis- 
 faction. 
 
 Saada was frankly honest. She came directly to 
 the point. Kneeling on the warm earth beside him 
 and resting her hands on his knees, she met him 
 with steady, unflinching gaze. 
 
 "Lance, I want you to reconsider your decision 
 about marrying me," she said very quietly, fighting 
 back the emotion under which, she laboured. "I 
 know all you have been feeling and suffering these 
 last few days, and " 
 
 "You know what?" he asked, suddenly fearful 
 of his own happiness. 
 
 Her small head tilted farther back; he watched
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 93 
 
 the rippling quiver of the tiny muscles about her 
 throat. In the soft luminance of the stars her teeth 
 were dazzlingly white, her eyes beautiful, despite 
 their shadowed sadness. 
 
 "I know that things have happened to make you 
 wish you had never engaged yourself to me. I know 
 that the coming of my father to Constantine, the 
 closer association of Eastern with your Western 
 ideas, have made you half regret the step you have 
 taken." 
 
 He leant forward, and placing his hands beneath 
 her arms, held her supple body fast. 
 
 "You think I have ceased to care for you, 
 dearest?" he whispered, carried away by the lure 
 of her beauty. The mouth that was willing to sub- 
 mit to his impassioned kiss grew suddenly firm. 
 She drew a little away from him, and her voice 
 was strong with resolution. 
 
 "I don't think you have ceased to care, Lance, 
 but I do want you, for your own sake, to let me 
 go." 
 
 Eailsford had not dreamed it would come to this. 
 He had satisfied his own meanness 1 of soul up to the 
 safety-point of immunity from consequence; now, 
 faced with the loss of Saada, he felt suddenly 
 afraid. 
 
 For a moment he made no answer to her unex- 
 pected request : his tongue passed over his dry lips ; 
 he drew a long deep breath of surprise. Then, 
 regaining his self-possession, he said, 
 
 "You really don't expect me to take you seriously,
 
 94 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 dear . . . unless, of course, you no longer care for 
 me." 
 
 It was a coward's way, to throw the blame on her, 
 and his voice failed over the last words. Saada 
 merely regarded him with a look of tender compas- 
 sion. 
 
 "When you asked me how much I cared . . . 
 I told you without any reserve, Lance. I had never 
 known what it was to love a man except my own 
 father until I met you in London. Then . . . 
 well, you know how it happened ; we just seemed to 
 grow fond of each other, and when you asked me 
 to marry you . . . I I was very happy . . . be- 
 cause I thought you would be happy, too." 
 
 "Well, and have you since lost faith in me?" 
 
 "Perhaps I have lost faith in myself. I wanted 
 to feel that in me you had found all you could need 
 in this life ; some one to fill every hour with happi- 
 ness." 
 
 He knew that she was taking the major burden 
 on her own small shoulders. Still he remained 
 selfishly obdurate. 
 
 "You don't believe you can make me happy?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Not unless your love is deeper, stronger than 
 it is now, Lance" raising her troubled face to 
 his. "I don't want to hurt you, but I am anxious 
 to save you from a step you might afterwards 
 regret." 
 
 "Why should I regret?" he asked, almost roughly.
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 95 
 
 "What sort of a man should I be to regret having 
 married you?" 
 
 "You are beginning to realize . . . the truth of 
 what I told you that afternoon in the Cotswolds. 
 Blood will tell. There is a difference; the East 
 and the West are so far divided that nothing but 
 perfect love can bridge them. I believed you to be 
 in earnest about our engagement : perhaps you are 
 still . . . but I am more than afraid for your 
 sake." 
 
 In an instant he had clasped her shoulders, and 
 bending, kissed her. 
 
 "Of course I love you," he said impatiently, as 
 though hurt and surprised that she had ever 
 doubted him. "I have always loved you . . . ever 
 since I first saw you in London. I wanted you 
 then . . . made up my mind to win you . . . and 
 now now you are talking about breaking off the 
 engagement." 
 
 "Only, sweetheart, because things seem so dif- 
 ferent," she remonstrated gently. "We are getting 
 very near to our wedding-day. Sometimes I have 
 fancied a change has come over you ; that you have 
 felt you would be standing in your own light if you 
 married an Arab girl. I know how you have felt 
 about my father. His being with us sets the stamp 
 of race upon me." The poise of her head told him 
 more plainly even than her words the pride she took 
 in her father. "I am not ashamed. Can* you say 
 the same?"
 
 96 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "You quite misjudge me," he said, looking hurt, 
 "because I do not understand Eastern people and 
 Eastern ways as you do. I respect the sheikh, and 
 honour him immensely. You mustn't blame me, 
 darling, if I haven't as much affection for him as 
 you have." 
 
 "The last thought in my mind is to blame you for 
 anything," she replied. "I shouldn't blame you if 
 you said now, 'Our engagement is a mistake; I 
 want to break it.' I should admire you for be- 
 ing strong." 
 
 His long fingers smoothed the softness of her 
 hair. 
 
 "You are very foolish tonight, little sweetheart 
 . . . filled with strange fears. I have never at any 
 time wanted to let you go: least of all now, with 
 our wedding-day so near. Every hour you grow 
 more precious, more necessary to my happiness. I 
 couldn't ever ever let you go." 
 
 In the shelter of his arms she ceased to feel 
 afraid. Her warm body moved yieldingly to his; 
 she hid her face against his shoulder and he felt the 
 softness of her breast. Then, with a gesture of 
 thankfulness, she lifted her head, brushed the tears 
 from her cheek and raised her lips. 
 
 Kailsford thrilled at the touch of her childish 
 mouth. In his nostrils was the subtle perfume of 
 her flesh, her hair. He held her fast, his breath 
 coming quickly . . . and in turn kissed her on the 
 lips and the brow.
 
 SHEIKH MEDENE 97 
 
 "Saada, I am in heaven with you/' he murmured 
 passionately. 
 
 "Have I been very cruel, Lance?" she asked, still 
 nestling close. 
 
 "Not cruel," he said, smoothing the troubled lines 
 from her forehead. "Only a little unjust. You 
 made me feel as though I had done you an injury." 
 
 "And all the time you weren't really dissatis- 
 fied with your bargain?" 
 
 "Of course not" laughing boyishly. "How 
 could I be? You mustn't worry your dear head 
 because I haven't quite accustomed myself to your 
 father's Eastern ways." 
 
 She slid her hand trustingly into his. 
 
 "And you will never regret, Lance? I would ; 
 rather you said so now . . . before it is too late." 
 
 "Darling" gently releasing her "I have told 
 you. I shall never regret . . . never."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 
 
 AS they stood together on the terrace the 
 following morning, Lance with her father 
 and Yakoub, grouped about the magnifi- 
 cent car which was to take them to the desert, far 
 to the south, Saada felt almost ashamed of her over- 
 night fears. 
 
 Lance positively radiated enthusiasm as he looked 
 over the motor with the stalwart driver whom the 
 Transatlantique had supplied. 
 
 "The machine is simply wonderful," he said, re- 
 joining the girl on the hotel steps. She'll run 
 like quicksilver on a thousand-mile sheet of glass. 
 The body can be covered in if we get rain in the 
 mountains ; there's ample room for all the luggage. 
 It's another amazing example of road transport 
 beating the railways every time." 
 
 "And in Africa, too," Saada's dark eyes sparkled. 
 "That's what fascinates me, Lance to know we can 
 go from one corner of this marvellous country to 
 another, visit Roman ruins and long-lost cities, 
 without once having to consult a time-table." 
 
 Francois van Ecken, the Belgian chauffeur, six- 
 feet two in his shoes and strong as a lion, touched 
 his peaked cap politely. 
 
 98
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 99 
 
 "Mademoiselle will see all the wonders of Algeria 
 for the first time. Parbleu! they are tres magni- 
 fique . . . the mont&gnes, the Kabyle country, the 
 hot springs pouf! those Romans knew somedink. 
 And my car ah! she is tres bon, tres bon. You 
 see." 
 
 She laughed as she watched him purr over the 
 beautiful engine, the spotless bodywork, the roomy 
 interior, and felt that this break in* a somewhat 
 strained situation had come just at the right time. 
 Lance had apparently quite forgotten if ever he 
 had really nurtured his aversion to his Arab 
 companions, for he laughed and chattered with 
 Yors Truley and the sheikh as though they had 
 been lifelong friends. 
 
 Altogether Saada felt more happy than she had 
 done for a long time past. It meant so much to 
 her, to know that Lance was trying to overcome 
 the prejudice which most white men have for people 
 of another race. The keynote to success in their 
 married life lay in this vital surrender. Saada's 
 love for her parent formed so great a part of her 
 existence, that hostility or contempt whether 
 veiled or otherwise on Lance's side must have 
 made a successful marriage utterly impossible. 
 
 Monsieur Momy, who had so ungrudgingly acted 
 as their cicerone during their pleasant sojourn in 
 Constantine, came to see them off, and handed to 
 Lance personal introductions to the company ; s 
 agents at Batna and Biskra. 
 
 "Whatever you wish done they will attend to;
 
 100 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 anything you or your friends desire to see you have 
 only to mention it to them." 
 
 Lance expressed his gratitude and warmly shook 
 Momy's hand. 
 
 "It is a wonderful way of doing business," he 
 said. "In all my travels I have never seen any- 
 thing to equal it." 
 
 Monsieur bowed at the compliment. 
 
 "We aim at a general freemasonry among all 
 who use our service, Monsieur Bailsford. We 
 like you to feel that in every one of the com- 
 pany's servants you have a personal friend. Bon 
 voyage!" 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Caret, the latter with an 
 armful of poppies nestled against her bosom, waved 
 them farewell; the big motor purred down the 
 white, dusty road and bore them swiftly through, 
 miles of pretty country towards the mountains. 
 
 Saada sank back, her arm linked through her 
 sweetheart's and her small hand slid affectionately 
 into his. It seemed that at last the realization of 
 her fondest dreams was coming true. All through 
 the long lonely years in England, where her herit- 
 age of blood had so cruelly isolated her behind a 
 barrier of prejudice and scorn, she had turned her 
 thoughts to the hour when once again fate should 
 lead her steps to the sun-kissed, flower-garlanded 
 land of her birth. 
 
 As the car sped on, devouring the miles of 
 blanched roads bordered by fields, where the wild 
 flowers grew in such a riot of abundance that Nat-
 
 A HEKITAGE OF BLOOD 101 
 
 lire seemed to have splashed all the world with vivid 
 colour, her mind was full of these things ... a 
 warp and woof of grateful remembrances and sad 
 regrets. Bitterness found but little soil in her 
 loving nature; she wanted to forgive and forget 
 those who had made her unhappy: Mrs. Railsford, 
 perhaps, who had been her bitterest secret enemy 
 Saada tried hard to attribute it to mother-love 
 for her son. There was only one other sadness, 
 and that did not belong to England the remem- 
 brance of John Williams and his unavailing 
 endeavour to free himself from the toils. How 
 she would have rejoiced to the full measure of her 
 big generous heart had he but sustained a little 
 longer the effort to win freedom. One day, 
 perhaps, she would hear of him again. . . . 
 
 "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?" 
 Lance broke in on her reflections, pointing to the 
 edging of petite 'bleu which for miles bordered the 
 track like a ribbon of purple velvet against a bar 
 of silver. On either side were vast stretches of 
 tawny red marigolds, flaming poppies, tall moon- 
 daisies ; and here and there, sheltered from the sun 
 burning in an unflecked sky by groves of olive, 
 citron, and the cool foliage of dark green cypresses, 
 were tiny farmsteads, the homes of French colonists 
 who had left their beloved land to plant in the soil 
 of Africa the roots of a new Colonial empire. In 
 the wide stretches that lay between these brave 
 little outposts of civilization were the tents and 
 gourbis of wandering Bedouins and olive-skinned
 
 102 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Kabyles who had immigrated from their mountain 
 fastnesses in the West. But, more wonderful still 
 the relics of the greater civilization that the ages 
 had failed to sweep away the bridges, roads, aque- 
 ducts and mighty buildings left by the hands of 
 Imperial Rome. Here they stood, shorn of but 
 little of their former grandeur, magnificent tem- 
 ples, mighty cisterns, deserted amphitheatres 
 and triumphal arches which long ago had echoed 
 to the steps of men famous in the history of the 
 world. 
 
 Lance was boyishly enthusiastic. Here, indeed, 
 was recompense for the long period of seemingly 
 profitless work done in London. The lure of the 
 sunshine, the ever-present fragrance of flowers, the 
 caress of the soft winds were a perfect setting to the 
 adventure upon which he had embarked. 
 
 It was early evening when they reached Batna, 
 a clean, well-built garrison town, whose chief claim 
 to consideration, so far as the hot and dusty travel- 
 lers were concerned, lay in the superb hotel accom- 
 modation awaiting them. They bathed and 
 changed and sat down to dinner prepared by a chef 
 who had learned his skill at the Carlton. 
 
 The sun was still glowing grandly in the west 
 by the time they had finished coffee in the beauti- 
 ful shady gardens. Lance was chatting with 
 Sheikh Medene and Yakoub when Francois van 
 Ecken approached. 
 
 The four drew to where Saada w r as sitting. 
 
 "The chauffeur has just made an excellent sug-
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 103 
 
 gestion," Railsford announced. "We may as well 
 crowd every hour while we can. What do you say 
 to a glimpse of the cedar forest of Mount Tour- 
 gourt? We get some magnificent views from the 
 slopes, besides a sight of very interesting Kabyle 
 villages." 
 
 Saada was delighted with the prospect and 
 hurried to her room to fetch a coat, for after the 
 short twilight, cool winds sweep down from the 
 hills. 
 
 There was a short walk through the town to the 
 place where horses can be hired. Saada waited 
 under the palms with Yakoub and her father while 
 Lance went off with Frangois to arrange terms. 
 She stopped abruptly in the act of saying some- 
 thing to Sheikh Medene : a tall big man was cross- 
 ing the further side of the square, and as he paused 
 and looked back across the tree-bordered space, 
 Saada recognized him . . . John Williams, the 
 pariah man of Constantine. 
 
 He still looked shabby, almost as poorly clad 
 as on the fateful night when he had rescued Saada 
 from the fury of the Arab mob, but there was this 
 difference : the ragged clothes had been darned and 
 brushed, the abundance of crisp dark hair was no 
 longer tousled and matted, the face glowed clean- 
 shaven in the sunset; his bearing was that of a 
 man who had passed through deep and troubled 
 waters and was striving to emerge victorious. 
 
 Saada watched him in pleased surprise. Quite 
 unconscious of her scrutiny, he had halted in the
 
 104 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 shade of an arch of purple bougainvillea that 
 stretched at the entrance of a narrow turning from 
 one side of the street to the other. Behind rose the 
 squat octagonal tower of a mosque, balconied and 
 canopied, the uppermost portion surmounted by a 
 pepper-box-like structure of coloured tiles, bear- 
 ing at the summit a glittering crescent. 
 
 Under the blanched walls a little group of dark- 
 faced, lustrous-eyed children in home-made gar- 
 ments of green, yellow, and vermilion were eyeing 
 longingly the stall of an itinerant seller of grapes. 
 At sight of the big Englishman who halted to watch 
 a procession of richly-dressed Arabs following in 
 the wake of silk banners and flaming streamers a 
 wedding-party on their way to the bridgegroom's 
 uouse they surged round him holding out grubby 
 little palms and musically tinkling the gold rings 
 in their ears as they shook their heads in a vocifer- 
 ous request for baksheesh. 
 
 The grey eyes turned on them a kindly smile; 
 he said something that made them all laugh, pat- 
 ted the head of the smallest and gave to each in 
 turn a small coin the entire contents of his purse. 
 
 The sunlight dimmed Saada's eyes with suspi- 
 cious moisture; a mist blotted out the procession, 
 but she caught the glad, eager cries of the pretty 
 children as with a toss of their coloured peaked 
 caps they ran helter-skelter in the direction of the 
 seller of grapes and aubergine. She saw the smile 
 that lingered on the face of Williams ; the last pair 
 of saffron legs had vanished round the corner;
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 105 
 
 then, as he turned in under a shadowed archway, 
 she addressed Yakoub. 
 
 "Yors Truley, I want you to follow the big 
 rlioumi over there; find out where he lives and 
 what he is doing in Batna." 
 
 Yakoub's tub-like form wriggled with pleasure 
 at being entrusted with a mission by his young 
 mistress. The tips of his fat fingers met in the 
 centre of his forehead and, making a low salaam, 
 he answered, 
 
 "Dot is already done. De act am fuss-cousin to 
 de command, mos' high born. Dis crawlin' worm 
 will follow urn if necessarible to de gates ob 
 Mecca." 
 
 The gaudy banners floated in the wind; the 
 drums were still thrupping and the drone of the 
 singing processionists resembled rather a funeral 
 than a wedding-party. Saada's emotions were 
 equally extreme a feeling of deep satisfaction 
 that Williams, in spite of a temporary lapse, 
 looked like making good, yet tinged with a strange 
 regret because he had passed on without seeing her. 
 
 As the bernoused and turbaned mob vanished 
 round the corner, Kailsford appeared at the head 
 of a string of horses led by a disreputable-looking 
 ruffian, whose attire consisted in the main of strips 
 of sacking stitched together, with holes for arms 
 and legs. On sighting Saada and the sheikh he ex- 
 plained, with profuse apologies that though poor 
 he was scrupulously honest, and apart from the 
 generous tips which he was sure the "duchess"
 
 106 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 would give him, he was quite content with his lot, 
 seeing that two pilgrimages to Mecca in his youth 
 had assured him a hundred thousand years of 
 pleasure with the houris in Paradise. 
 
 "Then every one's satisfied!" laughed Kailsford, 
 when the whole party was mounted, and he drew 
 alongside Saada. "But why have you sent Yors 
 Truley back to the hotel?" 
 
 "I haven't," she replied, blushing. "While you 
 were seeing about the horses a most extraordinary 
 thing happened. I saw Mr. Williams." 
 
 Eailsford's eyes darkened. 
 
 "What ! Here in Batna?" 
 
 "Yes, crossing the square on the far side. He 
 looked better than when I saw him in Constantine 
 physically, I mean but awfully poor. I don't 
 believe he has enough to live on." 
 
 "So you sent Yakoub to inquire?" 
 
 She could not fail to notice the sneer that lurked 
 behind the suggestion. 
 
 "I told Yakoub to find out all he could in case 
 there is anything we can do for him." 
 
 Kailford's mouth took on an expression of con- 
 temptous disapproval. 
 
 "It seems to me, my dear, you're carrying this 
 sense-of-gratitude business too far. The fellow 
 wants neither your help nor your sympathy. He 
 showed that plainly enough in the letter he left be- 
 hind. Why not let him go his own way?" 
 
 Saada's face lit. 
 
 "I haven't forgotten I can never forget, Lance
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 107 
 
 i that every hour of life has been given me by that 
 man. This wonderful night . . . the sunset, the 
 scent of the flowers, the pleasure of having you 
 and father with me ... I owe everything to John 
 Williams. It wouldn't be easy or kind to- try to 
 forget." 
 
 The tall Englishman leant sideways in the sad- 
 dle and eyed her searchingly. 
 
 "So all your days you are going to remember that 
 everything good in heaven and earth comes from 
 the hands of John Williams?" 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I shall never forget what he did, any more than 
 I could forget my father's love, or your goodness 
 to me. Lance, dear, you surely aren't jealous?" 
 
 "No, not jealous," he disclaimed irritably, flick- 
 ing the ears of the mare with the fly-switch. "All 
 the same, I do think, considering the message he 
 left behind, you ought not to bother your head 
 any more about him. Anyway, the subject is not 
 over-pleasant, so we won't discuss it." 
 
 Saada said nothing, and the matter was not re- 
 ferred to again during the long and pleasant drive 
 through the fragrant shadowed aisles of the cedar 
 forest. But later, as Saada sat alone on the bal- 
 cony of her room watching the mysterious flitting 
 to and fro of the night life of the town, Yakoub 
 knocked gently on her door and came in to re- 
 port on his mission. 
 
 "You gif Yors Truley much difficultsome job," 
 he laughed. "Dis wretched dog's body am eight
 
 108 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 pound less in grease than whenum started. I see 
 that man . . . tail big fellah he is ... and he 
 work for frowsy Arab camel-driver out there" 
 and he pointed far beyond the blanched walls of 
 Batna to the fields of stubble dotted here and there 
 with the ugly chaivias 'of Bedouin 1 and Kabyle 
 wanderers. "Sixteen* hour day dat white man 
 work Lord, dis" pore chile ob sin sooner be French 
 prison warder up at Lambessa, Clean camel, feed 
 camel, drive camel from free hour before the first 
 prayer up to now. Bah ! A dog's life eben for a 
 Christian . . . and him only just get eighteen 
 franc ebery seven day." 
 
 Saada listened, secretly thrilling with satisfac- 
 tion. True, the life was fearfully hard, but what a 
 splendid effort in face of the wasted, ruinous years! 
 
 "Where does he live?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 Yakoub pointed to the outskirts of the town, dim 
 and mysterious under the still night sky. 
 
 "The room, li'l but very clean. Some straw and 
 two sack. Eat cous-cmis twice each day and a li'l 
 drink ob sour wine. Cafe, absinthe, cig'rette 
 neber. Arab woman she tell me him good un- 
 crooked man. Allah be praised for one good 
 rhoumi in the land of no profit." 
 
 Not Allah, but God be praised was the formless 
 prayer that rose from Saada's heart. Many times 
 since that eventful night had she given long anx- 
 ious hours thinking of Williams, hopeful that all 
 would yet be well with him. She rejoiced in the 
 grim struggle which he was waging, yet fretted
 
 A HERITAGE OF BLOOD 109 
 
 that bonds of convention kept her from going 
 more practically to his aid. 
 
 That night she slept more happily than for a 
 long time past. At last it seemed that in every 
 direction her sorrows were coming to an end. 
 Lance's treatment of her father had shown of late 
 a marked improvement, much to Sheikh Medene's 
 secret satisfaction. 
 
 She would have liked to speak to Williams be- 
 fore leaving Batna, but the car was ordered at 
 an early hour w r hen she knew he would be 
 tending or driving his unfriendly charges across 
 the once-fertile lands of Mauretania. They left 
 Batna in the first flush of sunrise, taking the road 
 once tramped by the proud legions of Rome mov- 
 ing inland to their military headquarters at Lam- 
 bessa. It was. an interesting journey through this 
 once fertile granary, that had fed the Western 
 world. Now all that was left were the occasional 
 cultivated' tracts wrested from desolation by 
 French colonists, the paved ways and ruined tem- 
 ples, the tall columns and the grand triumphal 
 arches on the hills. At length they halted in the 
 spacious stone-flagged streets of Timgad, the 
 "show" city of Northern Africa. 
 
 They would have loved to spend a week among 
 the fine buildings and' dignified colonnades, the 
 wonderful statues and exquisite carvings, but El 
 Bouira was calling. 
 
 The land changed. Gone were the grim moun- 
 taifiis-, the rushing torrents-, the fertile plains and
 
 110 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 fragrant valleys . . . the 'world was given over 
 to a blazing desert of sand, dotted at far intervals 
 with cool oases of thousands of palms. 
 
 They made El Bouira three days behind time, 
 being delayed by a' sand-storm which for many 
 hours buried the wide Roman trackway under 
 several feet of fine dust. Fortunately, at the end 
 of seventy-two hours, the burning south wind 
 veered round to the east and brought a breath of 
 coolness from the salt lakes ; the dust lifted, and in 
 the cool of a delicious evening they sighted, clear 
 against the western horizon, the green fields and 
 the tree-sheltered walls of El Bouira. 
 
 Never had Saada seen anything so beautiful as 
 this first glimpse of the place which was to be her 
 future home. A gem of. softest emerald set in the 
 crown of blazing gold . . . groves of citron, lemon, 
 and orange, springing up at the fringe of the desert 
 and providing cool shade to the very gates of El 
 Bouira. 
 
 An- immensely high wall, planted at intervals 
 with embattled towers -more picturesque than ser- 
 viceable in their ruinous decay, surrounded 
 the town, and about it frothed and seethed white 
 clematis, purple-bougainvillea, sweet-smelling jas- 
 mine and cluster-roses. At the end of a broad, 
 well-lighted street bordered with plane trees and 
 palms stood a small but dignified building, the 
 English church, raised some twenty years before 
 by the British colony which had been working on a 
 special concession from the French Government.
 
 A HEKITAGE OF BLOOD 111 
 
 A club house, a new hotel run on first-class lines by 
 the Transatlantique Company, a small but flour- 
 ishing business section mostly occupied by French 
 and Maltese, but with a fair sprinkling of English, 
 completed the European portion; on three sides 
 stretched the native quarter. 
 
 Saada's hopes ran high as she looked out upon 
 the cool, clean streets. In the open cafes a few 
 uniformed French and native soldiery drowsed or 
 talked with Gallic animation ; on the sanded floors 
 sloe-eyed native youths played dominoes and 
 paused to lend an attentive ear to a marabout dis- 
 coursing on the teachings of the Koran. 
 
 Below the high walls which formed the backs of 
 better-class houses ran a slowly-trickling stream 
 clear as crystal and deliciously cool, brought from 
 the adjacent oasis of Yene Hadar. 
 
 In the square beneath the tiled walls and twisted 
 pillars of the Great Mosque groups of cameleers 
 were gathered, bartering with the sellers of water, 
 dates, and other commodities essential to the long 
 southward journey across the Sahara. Life, form, 
 warmth, and colour everywhere: a land of sun- 
 shine, smiles, and love. 
 
 Saada felt that she had come home at last. The 
 face of the aged sheikh reflected the same spirit. 
 They laughed together and clapped their hands in 
 an ecstasy of pleasure over a score of trivial things 
 which the phlegmatic Northener would pass un- 
 noticed. The sight of the dancing girls of the 
 Ouled Nail, in their black and red dresses richly
 
 112 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 ornamented with gold plaques, the very tinkling 
 of the heavy gold rings in their ears and about 
 their foreheads, drew expressions of childish pleas- 
 ure from Saada. 
 
 She turned to Lance, her face flushed. 
 
 "Everything comes back the scenes of my child- 
 hood," she said, her eyes sparkling; then nodded 
 towards her father. "Don't you remember my 
 twelfth birthday before we came up to Tunis . . . 
 the Ouled Nail came, and danced in the moonlight 
 as we sat on the roof till the stars went out of the 
 sky? Then I remember, there was a snake- 
 charmer who came one day from Beni Azoun, a 
 devil-man from the Soudan who did the most 
 wonderful tricks, and, to end up, we went off on 
 camels to the holy city of Halfouine across the 
 plains, and saw the priests walking on white-hot 
 stone. It was very dreadful . . . and yet I re- 
 member the next day I wanted to go and see it all 
 over again." 
 
 Kailsford, looking gravely at her, became sud- 
 denly preoccupied. Strange thoughts were in his 
 mind ... an aspect that never before had occurred 
 to him. Was it possible, after their marriage, 
 Saada would lose her veneer of Western civiliza- 
 tion and become again one of her own people 
 Arab in sentiment, religion, and feeling, as well as 
 in flesh and blood?
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 EL BOUIEA 
 
 IT was a pity such a thought should have come 
 at the moment of reaching El Bouira. Rails- 
 ford had honestly tried, through the past four 
 weeks to put away every doubt that arose as to the 
 wisdom of his union with a coloured girl. Back in 
 England he seldom thought of Saada as such; 
 at times forgot it altogether, except when in the 
 society of others a covert glance might be directed 
 at her finger-nails, or brows raised over the East- 
 ern character of her name. Had she herself made 
 an effort to cloak her nationality few would ever 
 have associated her with the Arab race; yet here, 
 among her own people, the consciousness was sud- 
 denly borne in on him that neither her Western 
 upbringing nor the tie of her marriage to a white 
 man would really change her nature. 
 
 As they left the busier quarter a tremendous hush 
 seemed to have fallen on sky and desert, bathed in, 
 an illimitable flood of amber light; in the west the 
 sun throbbed and glowed like an immense plaque of 
 gold, and the air was drowsy with the hum of in- 
 sect life. 
 
 Saada leaned back, chatting gaily with her 
 father ; the eyes of both were glowing. 
 
 113
 
 114 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Is it not good, O my daughter, to be back in the 
 land which Allah in his great wisdom has so merci- 
 fully blessed?" he asked, passing one thin hand over 
 the other and beaming with delight on the scene 
 unfolded as the car took the straight rise leading 
 to the hotel. "Often in Tunis I have told myself 
 that it is neither the blue sea nor the great cities 
 which makes Africa what she is, but the desert 
 . . . the desert Id!" 
 
 He stared across a vista of sand edged in the 
 distance with the nodding plumes of palms and the 
 soft green of the oasis rim. Against the turquoise 
 of the skyline slow-moving camels lumbered with 
 measured tread, their white-draped riders, bearing 
 long-barrelled guns across their shoulders, clear- 
 cut as cameos in the crystal atmosphere. Sun 
 and sand, palms and shady groves, the scent of < 
 flowers, and a pulsing heat that turned each day 
 into a love-song and the nights into dreams of 
 desire. 
 
 Saada turned to her lover. 
 
 "We ought to be happy here, Lance," she whis- 
 pered, slipping her hand into his. "In all the world 
 have you ever seen any spot so wondrously beauti- 
 ful?" 
 
 He was forced to confess he had not, and would 
 have caught the same spirit of enthusiasm but for 
 the dark, troublous thoughts lurking in the back 
 of his mind. They were not allayed when, pass- 
 ing up the stone-walled drive banked by masses of 
 wild flowers marigolds, veteres, purple, white,
 
 EL BOUIBA 115 
 
 and blue, sainfoin gleaming redly, succamelle and 
 purple borage in patches, and stately asphodels 
 he saw the terrace of the hotel crowded with Eng- 
 lish people who had come there, some few to drowse 
 and idle the evening away, the majority to gain 
 first impressions of the new arrivals. 
 
 In little groups they walked the rose'trellised 
 verandah or sipped iced drinks at marble-topped 
 tables in the shade of the orange trees. There was 
 a general raising of heads and a sudden hush of 
 meaningless chatter, as the car and the attendant 
 luggage-carrier stopped at the entrance. 
 
 Monsieur Bertrand, the manager, followed by his 
 son, came fussing out to offer a welcome. He as- 
 sisted Saada and her father to alight, while the 
 younger man issued orders for the disposal of the 
 baggage. Lance was conscious of critical glances 
 and guarded whisperings, of shrugged shoulders 
 and smothered remarks, as with the girl on one side 
 and the old Arab on the other, he followed Ber- 
 trand up the terrace steps. 
 
 He sensed rather than heard "new British Offi- 
 cial" bandied from lip to lip, and knew one was 
 telling the other that the native girl at his side 
 was to be the future hostess at the Vice-Consulate. 
 
 Through a dead silence they passed the several 
 groups and entered the cool of the vestibule. Said 
 Bertrand, speaking in French, 
 
 "I trust Mademoiselle and Messieurs have made 
 good travelling. It was expected you would arrive 
 on Tuesday, and there have been many inquiries as
 
 116 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 to the cause of the delay. I hope nothing serious 
 happened." 
 
 Lance felt that in replying to Bertrand he was 
 satisfying the curiosity of the entire English-speak- 
 ing population of El Bouira. 
 
 "There was difficulty over securing camels. 
 Your company came to the rescue with their car. 
 We have had a wonderful journey . . . and we are 
 all ravenous for dinner." 
 
 "For Mademoiselle and Messieurs a special menu 
 has been prepared. Dinner will be ready in one 
 half-hour." 
 
 "You have a good many people here," Saada re- 
 marked as she handed her motoring cloak to 
 !Yakoub. 
 
 Bertrand was rubbing his palms together. 
 
 "Ah, it is the special occasion, m'amselle. News 
 travels fast, even across the desert. There has 
 been much excitement about the approaching wed- 
 ding is it not? Certainly, on that day, the entire 
 town will go on holiday." 
 
 Lance whitened a little under his tan. 
 
 "I hope to goodness it won't! I had no idea 
 any one here knew about my engagement, let 
 alone . . ." 
 
 Bertrand smiled blandly. 
 
 "Did not Monsieur write to the agent, Monsieur 
 Dobee, as to a house?" 
 
 At this Bailsford laughed. 
 
 "Of course. I remember now. However," with
 
 EL BOUIRA 117 
 
 a careless wave of his hand, "it is of no consequence. 
 I don't suppose they'll set the streets alight." 
 
 All the same, the feeling grew on him, as they 
 sat at table later on, that every one who was any one 
 in El Bouira had migrated to the Transatlantique 
 Hotel, and had gone to the unnecessary expense of 
 ordering dinner, simply to take stock of him and 
 his future bride. And the fact that she was a 
 native, in the care of her Arab father, would set 
 the tongues of El Bouira wagging faster than they 
 had ever wagged before. 
 
 All though the meal this thought bothered him. 
 They expected the sheikh in his flaming orange robe 
 and green turban to eat cous-cous with his fingers ; 
 instead he dined like any ordinary European, and 
 the daughter might have graced a Paris salon. 
 There would be many intriguings and not a little 
 disappointment over this. Having discovered the 
 prospective wife of the freshly-appointed Vice- 
 Consul to be the daughter of a pure-blooded Arab, 
 it was natural to suppose they would sit on cushions 
 and take their food out of a common dish. 
 
 The many surprised glances suggested disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 If Saada was conscious of the manner in which 
 she and her father were being regarded she gave 
 no sign ; indeed, she was too delighted with her real 
 home-coming to bother over what people thought or 
 said. She had known all along in fact, had often 
 pleaded against herself that such would be the
 
 11& A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 natural consequence of their union ; and again and 
 again Lance had assured her his love was strong 
 and big enough to stand proof against such triviali- 
 ties. 
 
 They had almost reached the end of the sump- 
 tuous repast, such as Lance never realized a desert 
 town could produce, when the large room cleared 
 rapidly. In little knots the diners drifted out, 
 passing their table as though unconscious of their 
 presence. 
 
 Eailsford Smothered a sigh. He knew by that 
 sign that the seal of disapproval had been set upon 
 his choice. He glanced across at Saada, wondering 
 if she had noticed it. Her smiling face, as she ex- 
 changed a joke with her father, set his fears at 
 rest 
 
 "Shall we go to the music-room or into the 
 gardens?" he questioned. 
 
 She rose from the table. 
 
 "I think father would like to go to his room. He 
 is very tired with the long journey, dear. The 
 music-room will be full. I'd rather sit with you 
 under the trees while you enjoy your cigar." 
 
 Lance nodded and they passed out. The music- 
 room was empty: so were the vestibule and the 
 terrace. The throng had vanished as at the touch 
 of a magician's wand. 
 
 "We appear to have the place to ourselves. That 
 is ever so much nicer," Saada said with a gaiety 
 suddenly assumed. "It's much better to be alone." 
 
 "I suppose the majority have appointments in
 
 EL BOUIRA 119 
 
 town," he said, grasping at the first clumsy excuse. 
 "You know what happens in these small places 
 right off the map. Everybody visits everybody 
 else and plays bridge or billiards almost till day- 
 light. I quite agree; it is good to have the place 
 to ourselves." 
 
 And yet the thought haunted him long after the 
 sheikh had retired under Yakoub's care to the 
 quiet of his room. Tonight had witnessed the 
 first casting of the shadow a presage of the time 
 to come. He sat under the purple-blue of the sky, 
 dimly powdered with stars, answering Saada only 
 in detached monosyllables . . . wondering what 
 the future with this lovely innocent desert child 
 would be. Did it mean social extinction, a sepa- 
 ration from his fellows? To a man of Eailsford's 
 temperament such a verdict spelt disaster. 
 
 Always pride of race had held him. To be re- 
 garded as an object of pity or derision . . . was it 
 more than he could stand? 
 
 He looked covertly at the profile of the perfectly- 
 moulded face, clear-cut like purest alabaster in the 
 white light of the late-rising moon. The creature 
 of convention in him passed out and gave place to 
 the man. He told himself that at last he knew 
 what held him enthralled . . . the lure of her 
 physical beauty. Watching her now, he was deeply, 
 dreadfully conscious of it ... that every glance 
 from those dazzling eyes, every movement of the 
 warm, seductive lips, made an appeal which he was 
 powerless to withstand.
 
 120 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 The very nearness of her presence made his senses 
 reel. A wave of passion swept over him ; she turned 
 swiftly and saw the blaze in his eyes. 
 
 "Why, Lance, what is the matter?" she asked. 
 "Why do you look at me like that?" 
 
 The straightness of that gaze drew him out of a 
 riot of confusion which he tried to hide under a 
 careless laugh. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, sweetheart. I was only think- 
 ing just then how much I loved you . . . and 
 how glad I shall be when we are married. We 
 seem to have been apart so long." 
 
 "So long, dear !" She laughed merrily and toyed 
 with the ring on her finger. "Why, we have never 
 before been so much together. Don't you remember 
 . . . those dreadful days in London perhaps I 
 oughtn't to say that, because really I was ever so 
 happy . . . but there were times when we saw 
 each other, alone, only perhaps for an hour on 
 Saturday afternoons . . . unless it was one of 
 those great occasions when your mother asked me 
 to spend the week-end at Kedlands." 
 
 "You you don't understand," he said tenderly. 
 "It has been splendid to be with you here in Africa. 
 But I feel that something is keeping us apart ; that 
 ... I shall never be really happy till we are man 
 and wife." 
 
 fler mouth framed an expectant smile. 
 
 "That won't be very long, will it? Already part 
 of the time has gone, through this delay. As soon 
 as the house is free "
 
 EL BOUIRA 121 
 
 "I shall have to see the parson of the little 
 English church here. We must give at least three 
 Sundays' notice for the banns. It will seem such 
 a long' time, darling; I wish all the wretched for- 
 malities were through, so that you were mine 
 now," 
 
 "I'm certainly not any one else's," she retorted. 
 "And there's very little prospect of my running 
 away." 
 
 "Kunning away !" His strong arm suddenly held 
 her, and he drew her dark head to his shoulder. 
 "I couldn't let you. You've grown so inexpressibly 
 dear." 
 
 "I wonder will yau always say that?" she 
 questioned. 
 
 "Of course. I haven't changed in the three 
 years I've known you, and I'm not likely to now. 
 Besides, when we're married you'll be a thousand 
 times dearer to me." 
 
 "I was wondering, Lance," gently freeing herself 
 and brushing back the loose hair from her forehead, 
 "whether we ought not to postpone our wed- 
 ding " 
 
 "Good Lord! What for?" 
 
 " To give your mother a chance of rejoining us. 
 She'll think it' rather strange, our being married 
 without her." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It can't be helped. Uncle Hugh may be an un- 
 conscionable time in dying. And certainly she'll 
 stay with him to the end. No, Saada, we can't do
 
 122 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 that. The plans I've made must stand. You don't 
 want to wait ... do you?" 
 
 Her thoughts were wandering. They had 
 strayed, why she did not know, to a street in the 
 squalid quarter of a reeking city. She stood in a 
 garret room facing a gaunt-framed man whose eyes 
 looked at her full of pity, entreaty, and yearning. 
 She heard his voice above the voice of Railsford at 
 her side : her hand burned at the remembrance of 
 his touch. And then, in a moment, the picture 
 faded; she was back in the garden of the hotel at 
 El Bouira, alone under the white moon and dim 
 stars of Africa, and at her side the other man who 
 within three weeks would be her husband. A little 
 shiver convulsed her; she drew the silken folds of 
 the wrap more closely about her shoulders and 
 rose. 
 
 "The wind has freshened," she said quietly. "I 
 am getting cold. Shall we go in?"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 
 
 SAADA was charmed with the house which 
 was to be her future home. Built only a 
 few years before by a French architect 
 for a retired Tunisian merchant, it had been 
 modelled, in minature, on the Kouba of the 
 Belvedere, and combined all the picturesque charm 
 of an Eastern edifice with the latest European 
 comforts. Outwardly square, of cream-coloured 
 stone, three sides were open, save at the corners, 
 forming a large colonnaded entrance portico sup- 
 ported by Corinthian-capped marble columns. 
 Above these on each face were three arches fitted 
 with the most delicate recessed mesribeyeh work. 
 The flat parapeted roof was domed and cupolaed 
 in the centre and had at each corner a faience- 
 breasted turret surmounted by a gilded crescent 
 and star. 
 
 Bongainvillea gave colour to the blanched walls, 
 so that at a short distance the house looked like a 
 structure of old ivory painted over with purple 
 stars. Walks of golden-hued sand stretched, 
 between well-trimmed lawns and high banks gay 
 with bloom. The flowers were Saada's special 
 delight masses of white jasmine, the heavy scent 
 of which was ever in the shady rooms, beds of purple 
 
 123
 
 124 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 petunias, pink and white geraniums, flaming poin- 
 settias and trellises of cluster-roses. The back- 
 ground of dark green jamelon trees, of citron and 
 orange foliage starred with golden fruit, toned the 
 vividness of colour and gave a suggestion of quiet 
 restfulness. 
 
 Almost at the last moment there was difficulty 
 in securing possession and some months elapsed 
 before the date of the marriage could be finally 
 settled. This gave time, however, for additional 
 furnishings to be sent down from Algiers and Tunis. 
 The walls of the large airy rooms, lit by spacious 
 windows, shielded with green jalousie blinds, were 
 plainly distempered, colour being provided by hang- 
 ing door embroideries and soft-toned rugs, many 
 of which had been brought from the sheikh's seven- 
 teenth-century house and formed his wedding-gift 
 to his daughter. 
 
 Saada found her time fully occupied, while Lance 
 was absent up country with a number of French 
 government officials, engaged in settling a tribal 
 dispute that threatened international complica- 
 tions. He returned to find himself immersed be- 
 neath a load of work which gave little opportunity 
 to see much of Saada and less still of the house. 
 There was a round of official calls and visits to 
 be paid and other obligations, incidental to his 
 important position, to be fulfilled. The week 
 before his marriage found him depressed by a pro- 
 found disquiet. In all quarters there was a
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 125 
 
 scarcely-concealed hostility to the step he was 
 premeditating. 
 
 More than ever now he wished Sheikh Medene 
 had not come with them. But for that it was 
 scarcely likely any one would have guessed Saada's 
 parentage. Whatever her own innate feelings, she 
 neither behaved nor looked like an Arab ; her long 
 sojourn in Western Europe, coupled with her 
 English education, might well have cloaked the 
 fact which Railsford was so anxious to conceal. 
 
 From the first hour of their arrival, however, it 
 had been impossible to keep the matter secret. In 
 the European circles of El Bouira brows were 
 raised and shoulders shrugged, while not a few 
 paid her the half-way compliment of suggesting 
 she might be the child of an English mother by an 
 Arab father, and in the next breath detracted 
 from the concession by describing her as "nigger." 
 
 Not unnaturally, Lance was worried. It had 
 been easy enough to assume the "mind-your-own- 
 business" attitude at the contempt or disapproval 
 shown by the hundred and one chance acquaint- 
 ances which one always makes in foreign lands. 
 But the contempt of people among whom he had 
 to live, occupying, moreover, as he did, a position 
 of considerable public importance, was quite a 
 different matter. 
 
 At the eleventh hour he realized that there might 
 be a good deal in the objections which Saada her- 
 self had raised. His mother had foreseen them and
 
 126 
 
 had not been slow to issue a warning. The remem- 
 brance of it annoyed him exceedingly, knowing 
 that his was not the temper to bear lightly with 
 "I told you so." 
 
 He was in this mood of thoughtful and occasion- 
 ally bitter reflection one evening following his 
 return to El Bouira. At the office in the Rue Tim- 
 gad, where he generally put in an hour or two after 
 lunch, things had not gone well. A letter had come 
 through from the British Consul's department in 
 Algiers questioning, at the instigation of the For- 
 eign Office, a decision he had given in a concession's 
 dispute. This was only a pin-prick to a greater 
 sore. A dinner which was to have been given in 
 his honour, and to which, before their arrival, 
 Saada was invited, had been cancelled on the most 
 flimsy excuse. He knew that behind it lay preju- 
 dice against his forthcoming marriage. 
 
 Saada had gone to the villa with her father and 
 Yakoub to put the finishing touches to the room 
 set aside to be Kailsford's study. He was on the 
 point of exerting himself to face the quarter of an 
 hour's hot walk beyond the town when Salem, the 
 hotel's diminutive page, appeared in a state of con- 
 siderable excitement. 
 
 "Mos' import gintlemans . . . gra' big miling- 
 tary toff to see the Mistah Railsford. Name of 
 Captsing General Bill Bailey wiz no tin hat." 
 
 "Bailey? I don't know a Captain Bailey,' r said 
 Lance, puckering his brows. "You must be mis-
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 127 
 
 taken, Salem. He hasn't called to see me. You 
 had better -" 
 
 Before he could complete the instructions there 
 was a heavy step on the sanded verandah, and a 
 bronzed, middle-aged man in civilian dress greeted 
 Kaisford with a cheery wave of his hand. 
 
 Lance rose and stared curiously. The newcomer 
 held out a big palm. 
 
 "You remember me, don't you, Bailsford? I'm 
 Bailey, of Cuspar Court, your father's old friend." 
 
 Lance emitted a surprised laugh. 
 
 "Why, of course! General Murrans Bailey. I 
 couldn't place you for a moment. Sit down, Gen- 
 eral. And Salem, ask Leon to bring two double 
 whiskies and soda, please. Well, this is a stag- 
 gerer ! I'm ever so pleased to see you." 
 
 Bailey took a cigarette and dropped into the near- 
 est basket chair. 
 
 "The last time I saw you, Lance, was at a sup- 
 per in the hall of Trinity. I came up to see my 
 nephew, Grandison; I believe he used to keep on 
 the floor above you in Nevile's. Well, how are 
 all your people? Yes, I know your father is dead. 
 Poor chap, I met him the last time I was in Eng- 
 land. We lunched together and he asked me down 
 to Norwiches for the shooting." 
 
 Lance forced a faded smile. 
 
 "Norwiches is sold, General," he said tentatively, 
 as he tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand. 
 "I think that was the beginning of a swift end as
 
 128 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 far as the pater was concerned. His affairs were 
 terribly involved, you 'know. The only footing we 
 have left is the little place in Gloucestershire." 
 
 "Where your mother still lives, in health and 
 happiness, I trust?" 
 
 "My mother is very well, thanks. She was with 
 me up to a few weeks ago." 
 
 "Here in North Africa?" 
 
 The younger man nodded. 
 
 "In Constantine, She came out for six months, 
 to stay with me till I got the new job shipshape. 
 I've a consular post here." 
 
 "So I understand." 
 
 "But, unfortunately, just before we were due 
 to come here my uncle took it into his head to 
 be sick unto death, and by way of a sort of dying 
 repentance thought it would be nice to obtain the 
 mater's forgiveness at least, either that or the 
 hope that she will help to keep him clear a little 
 longer of the naming gates." 
 
 He spoke without sympathy, his only emotion 
 being one of deep-rooted scorn. 
 
 "Let's see wasn't your uncle the well-to-do one 
 of the family?" 
 
 Bailey was essentially a materialist. 
 
 Railsford looked glum. 
 
 "The governor happened to be the younger son, 
 and, like Benjamin, received little besides a bless- 
 ing. Not that that availed him much. As you 
 know," with a hard laugh, "it was always a pretty 
 hard job to make ends meet."
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 129 
 
 Bailey's sun-smitten face took on a questioning 
 look. 
 
 "I suppose it hasn't occurred to you, Lance, that 
 being the only male Kailsford left, there may be a 
 chance of one day coming into your uncle's for- 
 tune?" 
 
 Lance sneered as he tossed his cigarette end 
 into the cool waters of the fountain below the ver- 
 andah. The glow expired with a sharp sizzle that 
 covered the exclamation of derision. 
 
 "It has occurred to me as one of those possibili- 
 ties not in the least likely to happen. I'm afraid 
 that sounds rather paradoxical. Frankly, Uncle 
 Hugh doesn't interest me. Now, tell me, what 
 brings you here?" 
 
 Bailey leaned back and casually blew smoke rings 
 into the shimmering sunshine. 
 
 "My dear chap, I've spent the best part of my 
 misused life, and certainly the bulk of a commuted 
 pension, in wandering about North Africa. I find 
 it cheap: I've a host of friends; there's plenty of 
 sport to be picked up ... and what more can a 
 fellow want? Thank God, I'm not married, so I 
 haven't that responsibility. I can't afford to live 
 in England so I just make the best of a very pleas- 
 ant existence by following the inclinations of a 
 desert Ishmael. I made El Bouira three days 
 ago " 
 
 "Then why in the name of fortune didn't you look 
 me up before? I'm fixed here permanently. At 
 least," a disgruntled edge to his voice, "I suppose I
 
 130 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 am. Of course you've heard I'm going to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 "I have." The admission was not enthusiastic. 
 "The place is full of it. I heard it first at Mrs. 
 Nelleton's. I arrived just in time to 'do' a garden- 
 party. Later it cropped up at the English club. 
 Since then, my dear fellow'," eyeing his young 
 companion with a regretful look, "I've heard little 
 else." 
 
 "Oh!" Lance's tone was mildly questioning. 
 "Is a wedding out here such an untoward event?" 
 
 Bailey's glance took in both ends of the terrace 
 and the entrance to the hotel. The place slum- 
 bered in perfect stillness. 
 
 The General dropped back, his hands clasped 
 about his knee. 
 
 "I knew your father very well, Lance. He and I 
 were great friends since . . . well as long as I 
 can remember. His dearest wish was for the 
 happiness and well-being of his only son. My 
 boy," rising and laying a kindly hand on the 
 younger man's shoulder, "you don't think I'm an 
 interfering, meddling old fool?" 
 
 Lance looked up. 
 
 "General! Of course I don't. But why ?" 
 
 "Why am I taking on myself to talk to you about 
 your own affairs an affair which you might say 
 concerns you alone? Because, Lance, you are the 
 son of my dead friend . . . because I want to see 
 you as happily married as he was. I've heard " 
 
 "Yes?"
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 131 
 
 "That you are marrying a lady of colour. Is 
 that so?" 
 
 Lauce smiled a rather jaded smile, it must be 
 confessed. 
 
 "Quite true, General. I'm engaged to Miss 
 Medene, the daughter of an Arab sheikh. We met 
 three years ago in London. I. fell in love with 
 her . . ." 
 
 "I'm sorry." Bailey looked shocked. "Very 
 sorry for both your sakes." 
 
 "But why?" the other asked, knowing full well 
 what the answer would be. "What does it matter 
 who a fellow marries so long as he's happy in his 
 choice?" 
 
 Bailey spoke gravely. 
 
 "I'm not an experienced man, Lance. If ever 
 a fellow has knocked about the world, touched 
 society at its lowest and highest, I have. And, as 
 you know, the greater part of my life has been 
 spent East of Suez mostly in India. There, es- 
 pecially, I've seen the consequences of unions such 
 as you contemplate. You could not make a bigger 
 mistake." 
 
 "You forget, General: Miss Medene is the 
 daughter of a well-born, highly-cultured Arab. 
 The sheikh " 
 
 The other lifted his hands. 
 
 "You know the .lines, 'East is east . . . > I 
 won't repeat them. By Jove, they're the truest 
 ever written on the question of colour." 
 
 "But there are degrees," Lance persisted.
 
 132 A DAUGHTER OF THE 
 
 Bailey negatived the suggestion with a lift of his 
 hand. 
 
 "There are -no degrees. The streak is there, 
 whether full or slight. It is bound to come to the 
 top. You can't hide it. Stop me, if I am saying 
 too much." 
 
 "I know you mean to be kind." 
 
 "My boy, it's for your good. It T s a duty I owe to 
 my dead friend to warn you in time." 
 
 Railsford looked serious.. 
 
 "I know people have been talking. They always 
 do in an isolated place. If they didn't they'd die 
 of ennui. So they've seized upon my approaching 
 marriage as a subject for gossip." 
 
 "It isn't that altogether," the other replied. 
 "Agreed > they like to- talk. And marriage be- 
 tween a white man and a native, or vice versa, 
 always provides fruitful ground. I'm not think- 
 ing of them at all, Lance.; I'm thinking only of 
 you . . . and as your father's friend, I beg of you 
 to reconsider your decision . . . and not to marry 
 this Arab girl." 
 
 Lance pretended to take the matter lightly. 
 
 "Of course I can't do that, General. My engage- 
 ment has been publicly announced and everything 
 is ready in fact, the wedding will take place 
 within, a week. I've hired a house, put new furni- 
 ture in, and generally made the usual arrange- 
 ments for settling down. Apart from which if I 
 don't marry Saada I certainly shouldn't want to
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 133 
 
 marry any one else. You wouldn't like to see me go 
 through life a benedict?" 
 
 Bailey's grizzled brows rose. He grunted 
 audibly as he leaned forward to pick up his glass. 
 With his fingers round the tumbler he looked 
 across at Kailsford. 
 
 "I always had a notion, young man, that you 
 would do big things." His manner was gruff, 
 though kindly. "At Cambridge you did remark- 
 ably well. In the Service you're thought a great 
 deal more of than perhaps you imagine. I know 
 . . . because I knock about from one corner of 
 the globe to another. I've heard you spoken of as 
 far apart as Singapore and Bagdad as a coming 
 man. You can guess what that means some one 
 high up has marked you for promotion. D'you 
 think you'll ever get it ... tied for life to a 
 native woman?" 
 
 The look in Bailsford's eyes became graver. 
 For years he had worked and waited for the chance 
 which El Bouira had brought his first step to a 
 big appointment in the East. And no longer could 
 he hide from himself the fact that money and po- 
 sition meant a very great deal. At home things 
 were uncommonly tight, and every year his moth- 
 er's income was dwindling so much that before 
 long unless he himself could save the situation 
 the last bit of Eailsford property must go into 
 the market. 
 
 "I had a long tough fight to bring myself to
 
 134 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 talk to you like this," Bailey went on. "When 
 first I heard the news I was tempted to say nothing. 
 Then fragments of idle talk began to reach me: 
 bits of gossip retailed in the club and business 
 quarters in the, town. I me men and women 
 too with whom you ought to be friendly. I find 
 one and all have decided to cold-shoulder you if 
 this marriage takes place." 
 
 Lance set down his/ glass and stared in blank 
 astonishment at his friend. 
 
 "Good Lord, General, will it be as bad as all 
 that?" 
 
 Bailey eyed him steadily. 
 
 "My dear boy, it will be a hundred times worse. 
 You're simply committing social suicide. I don't 
 know the young lady she may be, possibly is, the 
 most charming person in the world; most of these 
 educated coloured women are but she's a nigger, 
 and " 
 
 "There I'm inclined to disagree with you," re- 
 plied Lance obstinately. "To my mind a nigger is 
 a black, and Miss Medene is no more black than 
 you or I. In fact, General ; unless any one told you 
 she was Arab, you would put her down as Euro- 
 pean with an early Oriental upbringing. She is 
 dark . . . every girl brought up from her birth in 
 the East is. The sun produces a darkness of hair 
 and a tanned skin which never entirely vanishes. 
 Look at yourself, now as brown as a berry, as 
 bronzed as any native. That wouldn't keep you, 
 General, from marrying an English girl?"
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 135 
 
 Bailey bowed in acknowledgment. 
 
 "Admitted! Admitted! But in the first place 
 this is a question of blood. All Arabs belong to 
 the black races. True, at one time they reached 
 a degree of civilization so high that to this day 
 it has left its mark on Western Europe on Spain 
 in particular. But the argument has been worn 
 threadbare; the roots of many of our sciences are 
 buried deep in a civilization which was old when 
 our land was still in the dark ages of barbarism. 
 I mean the Chinese. Would you, on this account, 
 marry a yellow girl?" 
 
 "Arabs are different altogether from Chinks." 
 
 "In what respect? Shall I tell you? It won't 
 sound pleasant, partly because it is so true. The 
 yellow races are moral, their moral code based 
 on the strictest in the w r orld, Buddhism and Con- 
 fucianism. The Arabs are not; from the Little 
 Sahara to the sea, from Arabia to Morocco, a lasciv- 
 ious, sensual, passion-loving people. It is in their 
 blood, the heritage of the ages; and to transmit 
 such through a white strain is about as mad a 
 proposition as any sane man could contemplate." 
 
 Lance sat up very straight, his hands nervously 
 interlocked. There was something rather alarm- 
 ing in the line of reflection Bailey had started. 
 
 "I I hadn't thought much about that. To me 
 Saada seems the same as any other nice girl. I've 
 never really associated her with Eastern ideas and 
 Eastern ways." 
 
 Bailey lay back staring up at the matchless blue
 
 136 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 of the sky shimmering behind a haze of sunlight. 
 The hot air was drowsy with the perfume of flowers, 
 and the music of bird and insect life produced a 
 curiously lulling effect. 
 
 "You feel all this, don't you?" he said, raising 
 his arm. "The pulsing heat, the pleasant drug- 
 ging of the senses, are part of the lure and charm of 
 Africa. But think of it how for a thousand 
 years it has eaten into the hearts and lives of these 
 people. Look at the women rich and poor, high 
 or low. Shut away, languorous, effete . . . their 
 natures amorous and sensual. They dream, talk, 
 live on love ... on sheer animal passion. And 
 the men are worse, thanks to the polygamy allowed 
 by the Mohammedan law. Call it a religion if 
 you like. I call it a creed of lust, of legalized 
 pandering to the lowest instincts in man. They 
 are not altogether to be blamed: climatic con- 
 ditions and easy circumstances are largely respon- 
 sible, coupled with the fact that out here Nature 
 seems to cast all her women in a lovely mould." 
 
 "I have always thought them strictly moral," 
 protested Kailsford. 
 
 "According to their lights, yes ; because life here 
 and life hereafter, the myriad years of Paradise at 
 the back of all their faith, means nothing more 
 than the physical love of men for women and 
 women for men. Look at their literature, in which 
 they are soaked from the cradle to the grave; is it 
 anything better than a perpetual encouragement 
 to unbridled passion?"
 
 THE MAN- WHO UNDERSTOOD 137 
 
 "You are speaking of a people, not of individ- 
 uals." 
 
 Bailey bowed. 
 
 "Exactly. There you hit the right nail on the 
 head. But remember each individual is represent- 
 ative of the whole. That is why all whites hang 
 together and array themselves against blacks, 
 brown, and yellow. We belong to a race which 
 possesses, and always has done, an instinctive re- 
 pulsion against the order of colour. We know 
 from history, from personal experience, that the 
 two things can never be successfully blended. 
 There are religious reasons, social reasons, physi- 
 ological reasons, and they all tend to keep white 
 and coloured blood apart." 
 
 "There have been happy marriages." 
 
 "As rare, my boy., as the dodo. Yours might be 
 one of the great exceptions. But, all things con- 
 sidered, the risk is too great. Look at the social 
 side first how many men are big enough and 
 strong enough to stand up under it: the isolation, 
 the contempt, the cold-shouldering? I've seen so 
 much in India the once-honoured Englishman 
 shorn of his friends, of caste, of that respect which 
 is part and parcel of the existence in a foreign 
 land. He retires, or rather is retired, to the se- 
 clusion of his own family circle. Children come 
 along : hated by their mother because they possess 
 the pride and ambition of their father ; despised by 
 him because those selfsame qualities fail to ring 
 true. To him they are make-believe, sham, a rest-
 
 138 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 less striving for something they can never attain. 
 They grow up scorned by their own people, de- 
 spised by the white race to which they aspire. The 
 world shuns them ; they are less than the dust, and 
 all through the years they stand at a barred gate, 
 looking towards a Land of Promise they can never 
 reach." 
 
 Railsford was visibly affected. This man had 
 touched chords long dormant: pride of birth, 
 and of tradition, the heritage of the well-born Eng- 
 lishman. 
 
 Bailey continued, speaking with a sincerity in 
 which he faithfully believed, 
 
 "I understand, perhaps as well as you, the charm 
 and lure of the East. It searches most men in 
 their time ; finds out a few and leaves them in a hell 
 of their own making. The women are beautiful; 
 everything here is beautiful, from the uprising to 
 the going down of the sun. But afterwards comes 
 the dark, which only eyes trained to see can pene- 
 trate. Lance, I want you to see before it is too 
 late." 
 
 "Why why didn't I think of all this before?" 
 he asked suddenly, and pushing back his chair, 
 moved out of the sunlight into the cool shadow of 
 the trees. "In England one never gave a moment 
 to such thoughts." 
 
 Bailey regarded him over his shoulder. 
 
 "Surely your mother, as a woman of the 
 world " 
 
 "Mother has never been quite happy about it. It
 
 seemed to me, though, she was thinking more of 
 social position than of my happiness." 
 
 "My dear boy, the two are inextricably mixed up. 
 How can a man be happy when he finds the whole 
 world his world against him? Let him be one 
 of those rare and wonderful cases who loves his 
 wife, be she red, black, or yellow, more than the 
 opinions and the treatment he receives from his 
 fellows. He is still burnt up when he looks upon 
 the treatment accorded her. And worse is to fol- 
 low. When the children come . . . what is their 
 fate? It always ends the same way. If the par- 
 ents live in England, the poor little devils are ban- 
 ished to the East . . . and the mother's heart is 
 broken. If the father and mother live out East 
 they are sent home to be put to school or farmed 
 out among money-grabbers. Either way the family 
 circle is broken, and there is general unhappiness 
 and dissatisfaction all round." 
 
 Lance drew up and stared unsteadily into the 
 burning eye of the sun. On his face the moisture 
 stood out in tiny beads; both mind and body were 
 conscious of acute discomfort. 
 
 "I'm afraid ... I must confess," he admitted 
 slowly, "Saada herself tried to put all this to me, 
 though not in quite such detail." 
 
 The General sighed. 
 
 "You appear to have been adequately warned. 
 Heaven knows, I wouldn't have opened my mouth 
 had it not been for the talk going round in El 
 Bouira. Then I thought of your father, and what
 
 140 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 he would wish were he alive. And I thought, too, 
 of a promising career nipped in the bud." 
 
 Kailsford walked to the end of the verandah and 
 came back to the table. 
 
 "Frankly, I haven't paid as much attention to 
 the future as I should have done," he admitted 
 thoughtfully. "Do you really believe it will make 
 so much difference? Thanks, I won't smoke now." 
 
 Bailey lit another cigarette. 
 
 "You know the Service, Lance ^the closest cor- 
 poration in the world; and rightly so, because it 
 represents an Empire. You fellows of the con- 
 sular and diplomatic service are the vanguard of a 
 great tradition. These people look up to you, re- 
 spect you. Do they ever respect a white man who 
 descends to their own level? Not much ! They re- 
 gard him as one of themselves and all respect dis- 
 appears. Conversely, the same holds good. One 
 meets lots of important folk in the East mer- 
 chants, travellers, scientists, Government officials 
 and military big-bugs. They are all an insepa- 
 rable part of your existence. Together they make 
 or break you ; and with a coloured wife you would 
 be broken in six months." 
 
 "The -picture certainly doesn't look too attract- 
 ive," Lance said, laughing weakly. 
 
 The General reached up and touched the other's 
 sleeve. 
 
 "You've seen the attractive side and succumbed 
 to it the lure, possibly, of a pretty face and 
 charming manner. Mind you, I feel horrible in
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDEKSTOOD 141 
 
 talking like this. Miss Medene is no doubt a most 
 charming girl : from all accounts, I believe she is 
 . . . and certainly her old father has a fine rep- 
 utation everywhere. But my contention is, and 
 always will be, you cannot, with satisfactory re- 
 sults, mix English and Arab blood. However" 
 he jumped up and dusted the sprinkle of fine 
 sand from his clothes "I hope I haven't exceeded 
 my privilege as an old family friend?" 
 
 "Of course, General, I understand. You are 
 thinking of my good." 
 
 "Absolutely, my boy, absolutely. I'm a rolling 
 stone, and goodness knows I've gathered little 
 enough moss. But at least I've escaped the fate 
 reserved for so many of my friends. I'd like to see 
 you doing well, just what your father would wish. 
 You'll excuse me for hurrying away?" 
 
 "Won't you stay to dinner and meet Miss 
 Medene? Perhaps then you might feel differently 
 about her." 
 
 Bailey drew out his watch. 
 
 "Thanks, but I must be off. I promised to dine 
 with Professor Phillipson and his wife at their 
 villa, He's planning a new expedition across the 
 Sahara, and he wants me to go with him. They 
 leave tomorrow, so you see . . ." 
 
 Lance left him at the end of the gardens and 
 watched the fine soldierly figure swing down the 
 road through the rose-coloured twilight. He went 
 back to his seat on the verandah feeling curiously ill 
 at ease. A score of times he wished Bailey had not
 
 142 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 found him 'to resurrect doubts which both Saada 
 and his mother in turn had raised in his mind. 
 
 The solitude bothered him: he went in for hia 
 hat, and turning his back on the hotel, hurried 
 through the town in the direction of the villa. 
 
 Saada met him on the steps of the canopied 
 pavilion. She looked tired, but happy. 
 
 "Come and see what we have made of your room, 
 dear," she said, linking her arm through his. 
 
 He passed into the delicious coolness of the high 
 apartments hung with Oriental draperies and 
 hangings. The floors were dotted with nacre- 
 topped tables; brass braziers of native workman- 
 ship stood in the recesses. And about the stone 
 columns supporting the Moorish horseshoe arches, 
 flowers were banked in immense tubs of Kabyle 
 pottery. The effect was soothing and purely East- 
 ern ; a perfume like the smell of incense hung in the 
 air. He glanced at Saada, a truly Eastern figure 
 surrounded by the beauties of her home, and the 
 General's warning recurred with added force. 
 Insensibly the West was being merged in the subtle 
 influence of the Orient.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 
 
 LAJNCE followed Saada from one room to 
 another, trying hard to share her enthu- 
 iasm, yet secretly troubled by the effect 
 which the surroundings produced. He knew that 
 the house was beautiful, but the quick falling of the 
 twilight filled the place with shadows and pro- 
 duced a sombreness as heavy as his own grey 
 thoughts. The lamps had not been lighted, and 
 they hung from the high ceilings, dead, bulbous 
 shapes as unresponsive as himself. 
 
 He felt he ought at least to try and show pleasure, 
 for Sheikh Medene, out of the goodness of his big, 
 generous heart, had stripped his once beautiful 
 home of many of its choicest treasures. The cabi- 
 net in the drawing-room was filled with rare speci- 
 mens of Tunisian glass crystal bowls shaped as 
 turbans, plates and dishes of rare enamel, gold 
 ornaments heavily chased, bangles and khal-khals 
 of beaten silver, and a set of plaques jewelled with 
 precious stones, heirlooms that had been for 
 centuries in the possession of the Medene family. 
 
 In the vestibule and dining-room were big oaken 
 coffers wondrously carved and ornamented with 
 Arabesque designs in brass: to Railsford, in the 
 
 143
 
 144 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 gloom, they seemed merely depressing. Even the 
 pains which Saada had taken to make his study the 
 last thing in comfort drew nothing more than an 
 ungracious nod of lukewarm approval, and many 
 times as he followed her upstairs and down he 
 wished General Bailey and his well-meaning 
 advice at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 By the time Saada locked the front door behind 
 her the western glow had melted from tawny gold 
 into the velvety blueness which precedes the up- 
 rising of the moon. The road stretched like a bar 
 of silver to the wall that still seemed to keep guard 
 over the ancient Arab town. Along the road rolled 
 open carriages conveying members of English and 
 French families to visit friends in the villas on the 
 fringe of the oases of El Oukrit. Some of them 
 merely nodded coldly to the distinguished look- 
 ing Englishman; others, taking advantage of the 
 gloom, passed on without even offering salutations. 
 
 The studied rudeness was not lost on the aged 
 sheikh. He had seen so much of it in the last few 
 weeks. He walked proudly, his head high, his 
 slight frame as rigid as the gold-topped cane in his 
 twitching hand. That which, all along, he had 
 feared in secret was surely coming to pass: the 
 white population of El Bouira was resentful at the 
 intrusion of his daughter into the sacred circle. 
 He kept his thin lips tight and his hawk-like face 
 grim, but there leapt to his eyes a flash of angry 
 scorn when he looked at Saada. 
 
 She hastened on, however, chatting gaily at her
 
 THE SACKED CIRCLE 145 
 
 sweetheart's side as though nothing untoward had 
 happened. When they reached the hotel the place 
 was already humming with animation, every 
 window a blaze of light, the soft cadence of a 
 stringed band coming from the crowded dining- 
 room. In the courtyard at the side a number of 
 motors were parked, the chauffeurs busy handing 
 down luggage to perspiring Arab porters. 
 
 "A large party in from Biskra," Lance remarked, 
 as they ascended the steps. "We've driven it 
 rather late. Can you manage to change quickly?" 
 
 Saada nodded and hurried off to her room. In 
 the bustle she had little time to reflect on the dis- 
 appointment which Lance's reception of her efforts 
 had caused. Fresh visitors were arriving diners 
 out from the residential quarter glad to get away 
 from the town after the day's work was done. As 
 she went down with Lance and her father she rec- 
 ognized several to whom she had been introduced 
 since her arrival : all were too busy studying menu 
 cards to look up. 
 
 The general atmosphere was charged with an air 
 of gaiety. Everybody seemed to be talking, the 
 new-comers chatting over the events of their long 
 journey. In such- an assemblage of sound and 
 animation one quickly becomes conscious of the 
 existence of a little backwater where quiet reigns. 
 Seated at a small table near to Saada and her 
 companions were a silent couple who might have 
 belonged* altogether to a different order of things 
 a thick-set dwarfish-looking man with a round
 
 14G A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 smiling face, as red and glowing as the sun at dawn, 
 and a girl, apparently his daughter. 
 
 The couple attracted Saada's attention immedi- 
 ately, for it was obvious they had' travelled with 
 the party, and yet were not of them ; two of life's 
 misfits who find difficulty in accommodating them- 
 selves to an unaccustomed position. Unlike all the 
 rest, who were in evening dress, the man wore a 
 much-used suit of tweeds a sports jacket, breeches, 
 coloured stockings and serviceable brown boots. 
 From the crown of his shock of straw-coloured 
 hair, slightly streaked with silver, to the soles of 
 his large feet, he looked what indeed he was a 
 rough diamond. 
 
 That nobody except the waiters appeared to pay 
 the slightest attention to him, apparently did not 
 bother him at all ; in a strong voice redolent with a 
 perfect East End accent he gave his orders in a 
 spirit of marked good-humour. 
 
 Saada strove hard to repress a smile as she heard 
 him say, 
 
 "Entry cot. What's an entrycot o' mutton? 
 Blest if I know. Do you, Hetty? Oh, that's what 
 it is, is it? Well, bring some, waiter. I daresay 
 it's very noice, and if it ain't, I shan't blame you. 
 Drinks! Champagne? Not a bit of it, lad; I 
 never touch the stuff, but if you can mix up suthin' 
 sweet and nice-tastin' for that gel o' mine, quite 
 teetotal, you know, well, she'll bless you wi' them 
 kind eyes of hers . . . and here's something to pay 
 you for your trouble. Now, listen, garsong," lay-
 
 THE SACKED CIRCLE 147 
 
 ing a big coarse hand familiarly on the waiter's 
 arm. "Me and mine this is mine," pointing to 
 the pleasant-faced girl, "is here for a couple o' 
 months ; and if you look after Theodore Snitch and 
 Co. take my word for it, he'll look after you." 
 
 Saada felt irresistibly drawn to the small Snitch 
 family of two: a father whose proud eye scarcely 
 ever left his plain daughter's face, and a daughter 
 who anticipated every wish of her rough, good- 
 natured father. The way in which each looked 
 after the other was wonderful; a dozen times he 
 asked her if she was "liking all she'd got" ; and a 
 dozen times she restrained her healthy appetite 
 to attend to her father's simple requirements. 
 
 Lance, too, had noticed them. He turned to 
 Saada after a prolonged stare, during which diverse 
 emotions chased across his aristocratic face, 
 
 "Really, I don't know what the times are com- 
 ing to. That fellow on your right is obviously one 
 of the nouveau riche, a war-profiteer, by the look of 
 him. Look at the way he eats as though ,he 
 hadn't tasted food for a week. I Really think 
 people like that might have the decency to put up 
 at a hotel where they can mix with men and women 
 of their own stamp." 
 
 Saada smiled sweetly. 
 
 "But, dear, they're ever so hungry," she remon- 
 strated gently. "I heard the lady at the table 
 behind you saying that a mishap had occurred to 
 the car in which nine of them were travelling and 
 that they were held up for two days in the desert
 
 148 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 . . . without food or wuter except for a lunch- 
 eon-basket which Mr. Snitch had with him." 
 
 Railsford grimaced. 
 
 "Trust any one with a name like that to look 
 after himself. Well !" 
 
 "And he insisted on sharing it with the rest. 
 I think it's a shame that any one should be cold- 
 shouldered simply because they haven't quite as 
 much veneer as so-called gentle people." 
 
 Railsford turned his head. 
 
 "What I complain of is, they do things which 
 aren't done, so to speak, in decent society. Look 
 at the girl now . . . using her napkin like a hand- 
 kerchief ; and the old man pointing out the beau- 
 ties of ceiling decoration with his knife and fork. 
 You can't wonder at their being cold-shouldered." 
 
 An aristocratic young man in faultless evening 
 dress was crossing the large dining-hall, followed 
 by a friend. He paused half-way to light a cigar- 
 ette ; the match-flame showed up the black intaglio 
 of arms with supporters in his ring. He came to 
 where Railsford sat, nodded frigidly to Saada and 
 her father, then said, with a hee-haw in his voice 
 as he set his hands on the table, 
 
 "I say, Railsford, old fruit, you didn't roll up for 
 that handicap. We're playing it off tonight. 
 Can't you possibly manage to come along?" 
 
 Lance glanced across at Saada. 
 
 "I'm afraid, Featherstone, I'm engaged for this 
 evening. I should like to, but " 
 
 "My dear, why don't you?" Saada interposed
 
 THE SACKED CIRCLE 149 
 
 quickly. "You love billiards and you'd enjoy your- 
 self ever so much. Father will be going to bed, 
 and I've such heaps of things to do." 
 
 "I certainly should love to come," Eailsford ad- 
 mitted. "Are you sure, dear, you won't feel 
 lonely?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 "Really, I wish you'd go. I must look over my 
 clothes." 
 
 "Right ho, old top. We shall expect you at the 
 club house at nine o'clock." 
 
 He swung round on his heel, and lounged out. 
 
 "One of the best, is old Featherstone," Railsford 
 mused, bending over his glass. "Strange, my strik- 
 ing him here after eight years. He's Lord Brach- 
 leigh's heir, you know. . . . You're very quiet to- 
 night." 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 She laughed and broke the train of reflection. 
 She was thinking she preferred the Snitches to all 
 the Featherstones inside or on the fringe of 
 Debrett. 
 
 Lance laid down his serviette and followed her 
 to the door. 
 
 "You are sure you don't mind my going? It 
 rather looks as though I'm neglecting you." The 
 tone was only mildly self-condemning. "But as 
 you've so much to do ..." 
 
 The rest was lost in the surge as the diners 
 thronged into the vestibule and streamed away in 
 little knots to the smoke-room, the drawing-room,
 
 150 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 or the terrace. Saada moved to the hotel steps 
 to wait until Lance came down. Theodore Snitch 
 and his daughter, looking rather out of place, had 
 hung back until the room emptied. At the foot 
 of the stairs the girl turned to her father. 
 
 "I've several letters to write: you go and enjoy 
 your cigar in the garden." 
 
 "Right!" he called out cheerily. "And when I 
 think you're through, we'll get together and go over 
 Flaubert's Salambo. I want you to read me again 
 that bit where they made a mess-up of the Roman 
 gentry's gardens and set Carthage on fire. My, 
 but that was fine, Het! Don't forget to look the 
 book out." 
 
 He passed out, a solitary little figure as he stood 
 alone in his rough tweeds, while the well-dressed 
 men and exquisitely-gowned women eddied past 
 and were lost in the silence of the grounds. 
 
 The sheikh had gone to his room ; in a little while 
 Railsford came down, a light dust-coat over his 
 arm. 
 
 "Don't wait up for me, there's a dear girl," he 
 said as he kissed her. "We shall probably have 
 a late sitting. You'd better be getting along to the 
 drawing-room or you'll miss the coffee." 
 
 "I shall come with you as far as the gates," she 
 said, and linking her arm through his, they went 
 down the sanded path together. 
 
 Saada went back in a curiously thoughtful mood. 
 Each day she was learning more and more of 
 Lance's character. There were sides to it of which,
 
 THE SACKED CIRCLE 151 
 
 in the first flush of their love, she had never 
 dreamed. She had thought him so high above all 
 other men. By degrees she was becoming conscious 
 of having raised an idol of clay liable at any time to 
 crash to the ground and break in a hundred pieces 
 Tonight he had shown in himself a reflection of his 
 mother's nature . . . and the picture had not been 
 good to look upon. 
 
 She went slowly up the steps. Behind the long 
 windows of the drawing- and smoke-rooms an eager 
 throng was gathered about the red-fezzed and 
 zouave-jacketed Arab waiters serving delicious 
 Turkish coffee in tiny gilded cups. A little dis- 
 tance off Mr. Snitch was leaning over the balustrade 
 deliberately cutting the end from a long cigar. 
 He lifted his battered panama politely as Saada, 
 a slim, graceful figure in white, appeared at the top 
 of the steps. 
 
 She made a pleasant bow, and ventured, in a 
 friendly tone, 
 
 "I'm afraid you won't get your coffee unless you 
 go quickly. It is so delicious, and very much 
 sought after. . . ." 
 
 Theodore Snitch beamed. 
 
 "My dear young lady, it's very kind of you to 
 take interest in a stranger like me. I'm not want- 
 ing any, thanks . . . but if, as you say, there's a 
 rush on it so as them what don't rush don't get, 
 then . . . permit me . . ." 
 
 He stuffed the long weed in his vest pocket, ran 
 lightly across the vestibule and was lost among the
 
 152 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 coffee-servers. A minute later he reappeared, per- 
 spiring but triumphant ... a cup in one hand and 
 a chair in the other. 
 
 "Now," he said, setting the cup on the marble- 
 topped table, "just you sit down there and enjoy 
 your coffee in comfort. Maybe you'll let me smoke 
 and talk to you. I love some one to talk to. 
 Funny, ain't it, miss, but the penalty of having 
 made a cool million o' money p'r'aps a bit more 
 by sheer hard work, is that no one among your 
 own people wants to have anything to do with 
 you?" 
 
 "Mind you, I'm not a whiner," Snitch went on, 
 leaning back in the bamboo chair while his ruddy, 
 good-natured face beamed up at the stars. "In 
 my short time I've had almost as many knocks 
 as most people my, it would break my Het's 
 heart to hear me forgettin' to talk proper: I do 
 drop back into the real Stratford way; but you 
 don't mind, do you? Well, as I was saying, Miss 
 Miss what's your name " 
 
 "Saada Medene." 
 
 "Miss Saada Medene ; that sounds real pretty to 
 me . . . and don't forget to drink your coffee, or 
 you'll find it so thick the spoon'U stick in it. 
 Where *were we? Ah, I know! Talking about 
 those funny people here, who find a sense o' 
 humour in turning the frozen eye on Theodore 
 James Snitch and his daughter. You've never met 
 my gel, have you?"
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 153 
 
 "I saw her with you at dinner," Saada replied. 
 "I thought she might be your daughter." 
 
 "And as fine a lass as ever an old man was 
 blessed with. Excuse me smoking, but I can't do 
 without my weed. Strange how these things get 
 a hold on you." He cracked a seven-inch Havana 
 between his thumb and forefinger. "Time was, 
 young lady, when I used to smoke a cutty the 
 real genuine penny clay wi' shag in it. Then I 
 jumped to a bob briar; and now . . . well, at six 
 bob each these are meat and drink to me." 
 
 "You mustn't smoke too many or you'll be get- 
 ting ill," Saada remonstrated gently. 
 
 The little man laughed and showed gold-filled 
 teeth. 
 
 "My! but that sounds funny. T. J. Snitch be- 
 ing ill ! Not when he's got a first-class nurse like 
 Henrietta at his elbow ! Which brings me back to 
 where we were when we kicked off you think Hen- 
 rietta a nice gel, eh?" 
 
 Saada could not fail to catch the note of eager- 
 ness behind the question. 
 
 "I should think she is a very nice girl indeed. 
 She has a sweet face and appears most devoted to 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Snitch's flat palm came down with a re- 
 sounding slap on his fat knee. 
 
 "You've hit it ... she's a real good 'un one 
 o' the best. But, d'you know," the humorous 
 twinkle dying out of the mild eyes, which became
 
 154 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 grave, "I'm thinking of leaving her, of cutting the 
 cable between her and the old dad and letting her 
 stser a course all on her own." 
 
 "But why?" Saada asked, suddenly interested. 
 
 "Why?" the strange little man proceeded. "Be- 
 cause you see what keeping an old tub like me in 
 tow means. Tonight was a proof of it." He waved 
 his hand and indicated the lighted windows behind 
 which a hundred guests were gathered. "D'you 
 think there's one among that crowd wants to know 
 my gel so long as she's hooked up to me? Not a 
 bit of it ; not a little bit. For all his money, Theo- 
 dore Snitch ain't good enough. . . . But I tell you 
 she's worth the whole lot put together. There's 
 not a man or woman in those rooms, for all their 
 jewels and fine clo's, can hold a candle to my gel for 
 character. Sire's got 'em all beaten to a frazzle." 
 
 "I'm quite sure of it," Saada agreed. 
 
 The red round face was smiling again. 
 
 "I like talking to you. It does me good . . . sort 
 of safety-valve to T. J. S. w T hich keeps him runnin' 
 under an even head of steam. If I bottled it all 
 up too long I'd go off pop . . . and then, my hat! 
 the bits would fly and there'd be a mess all round. 
 But you've got onderstanding, and you can see how 
 it irks me when my Hetty's cold-shouldered and 
 glass-eyed just because she's got an old dad who's a 
 bit rough in the make-up. I felt real touched-up to- 
 night ... as she and me sat in that big room all 
 alone. Comic, isn't it, to feel lonely among scores 
 of people?"
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 155 
 
 The simple words reached a soft chord in Saada's 
 heart. There was a warm, pulsing humanity 
 about the little squat figure in sympathy with the 
 hidden side of her own nature. She, too, from a 
 different cause, had felt this same ache of loneli- 
 ness, this yearning for understanding and compan- 
 ionship in a world strangely cold and secretly 
 hostile. 
 
 "I hope you won't feel lonely as long as we are 
 here," she said kindly. "We live in El Bouira, 
 and I'm sure we shall be glad to see you both at 
 any time." 
 
 The blue eyes widened in amaze. 
 
 "You mean that?" 
 
 "Certainly. You are strangersi in a strange 
 land. We speak the same tongue. That alone 
 should suffice to make us friends." 
 
 "Friends! I've almost forgot the meaning of 
 the word." His tone was bitter now. "It makes 
 me wish at times I'd never coined the money. I 
 remember hope you're not getting fed-up ..." 
 
 Saada shook her dark petite head. 
 
 "Well, then, Miss, Medene, I remember when I 
 was a poor chap, working at Harris's soap works 
 just outside Stratford ... I had heaps o' pals. 
 My! but we was pore then, and every Saturday 
 night I had to put the rent, six bob I remember it 
 come to, on the clock; and then, all of a sudden, I 
 struck this idea for Snitch's Patent Oil Cake. 
 For five years I worked on it in my spare time, but 
 I won through, and soon had things goin' strong
 
 156 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 in more ways than one. Then the war came. The 
 Government applied for cattle-fodder. I wanted 
 to fight, but they said I was too tight about the 
 Plimsoll mark to do good. So I put in my price 
 for Snitch's best eighty per cent, lower than 
 everybody else's, because I didn't want long profits 
 out of a country that was fighting for me and mine. 
 But my word! ... in a month you couldn't find 
 me for orders. They just swamped in from all the 
 world . . . France, Italy, Japan, America. I 
 netted a million, after giving two away: I might 
 have had ten. And now I've got my reward. 
 The men and women I gave my brains and time to, 
 don't know me or mine. It's a rum world, ain't 
 it?" 
 
 "Some people certainly are difficult to under- 
 stand," she admitted. 
 
 He stared at the glowing end of the cigar, and 
 turned the long brown weed thoughtfully between 
 his fingers. 
 
 "Scarcely any one knows how much I might have 
 made from the Government, if I'd had the mind: 
 millions more. Some chap high up knew. He 
 offered an O. B. E. : I refused it. Then they came 
 along with the better-class things, with a ribbon 
 and a K. C. in front. Could I see myself Sir 
 Theodore J. Snitch, K. C. B. E.? Not a bit of it, 
 my dear. My missis could, though ; so could my 
 sons and three other daughters. Living in Park 
 Lane they are today, on an allowance I make 'em 
 . . . twenty thousand a year. Het, she stuck to
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 157 
 
 me, and here we are, together, as merry and bright 
 as a couple o' new ha'pennies." 
 
 "It sounds most romantic and certainly very 
 creditable," Saada agreed. "I'm ever so sorry if 
 people aren't nice to you." 
 
 "Nice !" he echoed scornfully. "They don't want 
 to be nice to folk who won't dress for dinner or say 
 'Bai Jove!' and 'How w r ipping!' I'm a blunt, 
 plain stick, T am : an' I don't sport a crest or swank 
 about my hancestors and so we sit in carriages all 
 alone, we ride our camels a bit way distant from 
 the rest . . . and at table we're stuck in corners, 
 so as not to give offence . . . jest because people 
 won't be their real true selves. At times I get fed- 
 up and tell my gel she ought not to stick to the old 
 man. What do you think about it, Miss Medene?" 
 
 Saada's manner was serious. 
 
 "There is only one thing to think, Mr. Snitch. 
 You and your daughter are happy together. She 
 wouldn't want to leave you merely to win social 
 approval. A good many of us have to face and 
 endure what the world thinks and says. What 
 does it matter so long as we remain true to our- 
 selves?" 
 
 "My ! but that's well thought out and nicely put ; 
 my sentiments to a 'T,' except when I get a fit o' 
 the blues . . . same as tonight; then I begin to 
 wonder and ask myself questions, and it takes a 
 little touch of real humanity to set me right agen." 
 
 "You will remain happy while the rest pass on," 
 the girl continued. "Here there is so much that is
 
 158 A DAUGHTEK OF THE SANDS 
 
 beautiful the sun, the warmth, the blue sky and 
 the wonderful flowers. They help to make life 
 very beautiful." 
 
 "I guess you've settled in these parts, then?" 
 
 "Yes, I am going to be married and spend a good 
 many years in North Africa." 
 
 "Well, that's fine! Now shall I tell you what 
 me and Het are doin'?" 
 
 "I'd like to know." 
 
 "Perhaps," stroking his chin reflectively, "you 
 could help me. I'm in a bit of a quan-daxy that's 
 the right word, isn't it? Fin settling, for a year or 
 two at any rate, with my gel in Tunis." 
 
 "I was born in Tunis, Mr. Snitch. My father 
 lives there. Where is your house?" 
 
 "I've bought a place mebbe you know it, the 
 old palace of Dar Cheikh Ben Hassen in Sidi Ben 
 Said." 
 
 "Yes, I have often seen it close to the Palais du 
 Bey at La Marsa." 
 
 "You've got it ... a wonderful cream-coloured 
 place with domes and spires and' little minarets, 
 between the Phare and the Archbishop's palace. 
 That's to be our home, Miss Medene, when we've 
 finished with it ... but the finishing's the job." 
 
 "Oh !" her interest deepening. 
 
 "It was like this," the little man continued. "I 
 got dead beat with England. I'm too low down in 
 the social scale for there to be much room for me. 
 I left them as like the 'tuft-huntin' ' to it. Het 
 and me come out here, to a fresh land. And when
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 159 
 
 we saw Dar Cheikh Ben Hassen, well, we simply 
 fell in love with it at first sight . . . the marble 
 paved courtyards, the columns sneaked from Car- 
 thage, the fountains what oughter be filled wi' gold- 
 fish and ain't; the balconies where creepers and 
 trailing roses and flowers in pots should stand 
 . . . only the pots are empty. And then the big 
 airy rooms with high gilded beds, an' carved stone 
 winders . . . my ! but don't you think that mesrib- 
 eyeh work is bee-ooti-ful?" 
 
 "I can imagine the Dar Cheikh Ben Hassen be- 
 ing made fit for a king." 
 
 "Now, if that's not my very idea! Gee, but 
 it's clever of you to think of it. I mean to make it 
 fit for a king; not king Snitch, tho' he'll live in it 
 till it's finished, but the King of England; and if 
 His Majesty refuses of it then I'll make it over 
 ... a gift to the British people in Tunisia." 
 
 "I'm certain they will appreciate your generos- 
 ity." 
 
 The little man shook his head. 
 
 "It's not a matter o r generosity at all, Miss 
 Medene. It's a responsibility which should fall 
 on a rich man. Let me explain, if I can. When I 
 set foot in this wonderful land ten months ago 
 w r hat did I see? Art treasures, some of the mos' 
 wonderful treasures in the world, thought no more 
 of than that," snapping his fingers. "Loot from 
 ancient cities like Athens and Syracuse; statues, 
 carvings and arches left to decay in Carthage, 
 Douagga and Roman cities that scarcely any one
 
 160. A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 knows anything -about : mosaics, enamels, coloured 
 tiles, pottery, vases and furniture hundreds 
 of years old. Says I to myself, 'Theodore, here's 
 a chanst to do real good with your money. Save 
 those relics from destruction for future genera- 
 tions; get 'em together in a fine house, give 'em 
 to the King or the British nation, and when you're 
 gone at least some one will reap the benefit." 
 
 "The notion's splendid. I suppose you came 
 south to add to your collection?" said Saada en- 
 thusiastically. 
 
 "That's it. I've bought the palace, and at the 
 moment it's being cleaned up, ready to receive the 
 things. But now comes the difficulty I spoke of. 
 I haven't the taste or the knowledge to know what 
 is real and what is fake. Mind you, I must have 
 the best ... no hole-and-corner business is good 
 enough for me." 
 
 "There are dealers and experts like Ahmed 
 Jhemal in the Souk el Attarine in Tunis who would 
 advise you honestly." 
 
 "I know, but Mr. Jhemal isn't here a hundred 
 miles across the desert. He's got his own business 
 to attend to. I had a look round, a month ago, 
 before I came here, right down west, in the Arab 
 country beyond Tunisia, and visited the half-buried 
 Roman city which they now call Beni El Ourit, be- 
 yond the oasis of Kheiroun. It belonged to an 
 Arab sheikh named Okba. I agreed to give him a 
 quarter of a million francs for the site, just as it is.
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 161 
 
 My ! but there's heaps of stuff there in the way of 
 marble and carved stone." 
 
 "Your difficulty is transport?" 
 
 "No. Honesty. I want some one to watch my 
 interests. A man who I can trust. They're not 
 easy to find nowadays. I've been looking round, 
 and what I'm afraid of is ... as the best things 
 are brought to the surface, they'll disappear." 
 
 "It would be a thousand pities." 
 
 "And then," the millionaire went on, "I want 
 some one who can travel round to other cities in 
 Tunisia and Algeria and buy up old carpets, rugs, 
 and hangings; real antique Arab furnishings, like 
 chests, tables, and mirrors. I suppose you don't 
 know of anybody?" 
 
 In the back of Saada's mind a strange thought 
 was stirring. Was it possible such a wonderful 
 opportunity could be secured for John Williams? 
 
 "I see ; it's got you guessing," Snitch broke in on 
 the reflection. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, setting down her cup, "I 
 do know some one ... a gentleman by birth and 
 education, a man who loves and admires beautiful 
 things. I believe he would jump at the chance." 
 
 Snitch looked delighted. 
 
 "Then bring him along here. I don't mind what 
 I pay so long as he's honest and will serve me well. 
 Are you quite sure " 
 
 He caught the troubled expression in her eyes. 
 Her voice quivered with emotion when she spoke.
 
 162 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "I could get him easily enough, but I think, be- 
 fore you decide, I ought to tell you the sort of man 
 he has been. I I would trust him with my life, 
 but perhaps when you hear what I have to say you 
 might not care to employ him." 
 
 The millionaire regarded Saada curiously. Her 
 face had become suffused with warm colour; her 
 eyes had brightened, her whole manner was more 
 animated. 
 
 "I guess you're speaking about a brother o' yours 
 who's gone wrong," Snitch, remarkably quick of 
 perception, suggested. "Well, if that's so, I reck- 
 on the fact o' your trusting him is good enough 
 for me . . . and no man shall ever say T. J. S. re- 
 fused to hold out a helping hand." 
 
 Saada's lips set purposefully. 
 
 "Not my brother, but my friend: one who has 
 sunk to the lowest depths and is fighting splendidly 
 to get up again." 
 
 "By Caractacus, the very chap for me!" cried 
 the little man, bringing down his clenched fist with 
 a resounding smack into the palm of his hand. 
 "Give me a fighter . . . any size, weight or colour 
 . . . and I'm willing to put my money on him. 
 There's only one point, though: would he under- 
 stand those oojilapper things such as bronzes, stat- 
 uary, and the like? I must have some one who 
 knows." 
 
 Saada nodded. 
 
 "Of course. He has been in North Africa a 
 good many years, though what he used to be or do I
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 163 
 
 can't say. He goes by the name of John Williams. 
 I met him under very terrible circumstances. I 
 was in danger, in the native quarter of Constan- 
 tine ; he came to my aid at the risk of his life . . . 
 and saved me. Since then, of course, I've taken a 
 very great interest in him." 
 
 "Bet your sweet life you have," agreed Snitch. 
 "Can't do too much for a chap like that. But 
 what's his trouble drink or women?" 
 
 Saada's head moved sadly. 
 
 "Worse than that. He used to drug himself into 
 a state of coma some stuff which the lower-class 
 natives use to induce pleasant dreams; I believe 
 a kind of haschish. I found him in a terrible state 
 hopeless, without friends. But" her voice sud- 
 denly softening to a tone of abstraction "that 
 meeting with me seemed to change him, to give him 
 encouragement, and " 
 
 "Gee ! but you're the type of woman to give any 
 man hope. I'll lay a tenner to a square of oil cake 
 he'd do anything for you." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I believe he would. He promised to try. It 
 was most difficult to know what to do. I felt like 
 giving him money: he was so poor, with only the 
 few wretched rags he stood up in. His home was 
 a bare attic in an Arab house. He seldom ate any- 
 thing, although he was so big, and he might have 
 been such a fine strong man. I would have liked 
 my fiance to help him . . . but he was too proud. 
 He went away, and we never saw him again in
 
 164 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Tunis. But one evening, a few months ago, in the 
 Square at Batna, I saw him . . . working as a 
 cameleer." 
 
 "Gad! but that's low down for a white man! 
 Excuse me ... I forgot myself. You understand, 
 don't you? I'm a bit rough at times . . . and it 
 makes me wild to think of one o' my own country- 
 men slaving for a native camel-owner." 
 
 The brightness in her eyes was the measure of 
 her faith. 
 
 "He did not seem to mind so long as he was 
 standing alone. I made inquiries. He is try- 
 ing to give up the drug. He works sixteen, some- 
 times eighteen hours a day for a mere pittance. 
 But he is paying his simple way, and I understand 
 he is very proud of that." 
 
 "As well he might be. Good luck to him." 
 Snitch rose and laid a strong hand on her shoulder. 
 "And you say," moving to the side of the terrace 
 and resting his elbows on the balustrading, "he's 
 a gentleman?" 
 
 "Absolutely. His people, I believe, belong to an 
 old county family; he doesn't want them to know 
 how low he has fallen." 
 
 "So that's why he calls himself Williams?" 
 
 "I suppose so. He has never spoken to any one 
 except me about his earlier life." 
 
 "And you know where to find him?" 
 
 "Yes. I have his address." 
 
 "Perhaps you'd write on my behalf?" 
 
 She was silent a moment.
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 165 
 
 "I think I had better leave that to you. You 
 may mention my name, if you like ... or 
 when you leave here you might go and see him in 
 Batna." 
 
 "I'm not leaving here." The little man's manner 
 was jocose. "I've found a comfy perch. This 
 hotel is a topper . . . my ! but did you ever eat 
 such a dinner as they gave us tonight? Besides, I 
 can make El Bouira my headquarters, and if this 
 fellow Williams pans out all right, he can operate 
 from here. I wish you'd just write down h,is 
 address." 
 
 He passed over notebook and pencil. In the 
 dazzling clearness, with a moon riding grandly 
 above the tall eucalyptus trees, Saada wrote as 
 easily as by day. Snitch followed the gliding mo- 
 tion of the pencil. 
 
 "My, but I like the idea, Miss Medene! A chap 
 who can pick himself out of the mire and take the 
 ring to receive ding-dong blows will be at the verti- 
 cal when the count out comes. You've done me a 
 turn tonight I'll never forget." 
 
 "Oh, but ... I wanted to do something for 
 him. He did so much for me. I do hope every- 
 thing will turn out all right." 
 
 "Trust me for that," he said, reaching for his 
 panama. "I'll send a car down to Batna to bring 
 Mr. Williams along. I guess you'll be going in 
 now." 
 
 "Thanks : the night is very warm. I shall wait 
 until my fiance returns."
 
 166 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 "Well, good-night." He put out his rough hand. 
 "We'll meet again in the morning." 
 
 He went off, whistling gaily, and as the big swing 
 doors closed behind him, Saada felt strangely 
 lonely. The night was very still: a handful of 
 stars peeped out and cast a faint glow at the silver 
 disc of the moon dropped behind the trees. In 
 the spacious rooms, now almost deserted save for 
 a few men grouped together playing cards, the 
 lights still burned. But over all was the deep hush 
 of the African night. 
 
 The conversation had awakened half-slumbering 
 memories of Williams. Deep down in her heart 
 had lingered the hope that one day they should 
 meet again. It would be good, she felt, to rejoice 
 with him over the success of his splendid effort 
 , . . to see his face glowing with hope instead of 
 lined with despair. 
 
 She looked at the watch on her wrist. It was 
 very late past midnight. How the time had 
 flown : more than three hours since Lance had left 
 her! In the shadow of the slender-stemmed palms 
 encircling the tiny ornamental lake the frogs began 
 to croak, faintly at first but soon producing a babel 
 of sound. Along the yellow streak of the road be- 
 low the gardens little knots of Arabs passed, the 
 hoods of their ~ber nouses drawn about their ears, 
 their robes blown against their thin legs by gusts of 
 wind driving up from the south. One played a 
 flute as he walked ... a timorous wailing mel- 
 ody full of haunting sadness.
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 167 
 
 The girl shivered, and drawing her cloak about 
 her, moved down the steps and took the sanded 
 path between the high walls of olive-green foliage. 
 Against the darkness fireflies crossed and recrossed 
 in lines of iridescent flame; the breeze was heavy 
 with the perfume of flowers. 
 
 Saada's mind was full of troublous disquiet. 
 Lance had been long gone : the manner of his going 
 was something unpleasantly new. A month ago 
 he would scarcely have left her for an hour . . . 
 but tonight he had gone off seemingly without 
 regret. Each day, of late, had added its little 
 quota of uneasiness. More than once the friends 
 he had made had covertly shown their disapproval 
 of his choice; tonight Featherstone's manner had 
 been almost without restraint. What would 
 happen later, when the irrevocable step had been 
 taken, and she was his wife? She dared not trust 
 herself to reflect. The clock in the vestibule chimed 
 the half -hour; she turned her back on the gardens 
 and slowly mounted the stairs. To her surprise a 
 light burned brightly in her father's room . . . 
 not the subdued light which usually marked his 
 sleeping hours, but the brilliance of a reading lamp 
 streaming from the partly open door. She knocked 
 very quietly, and to her astonishment the sheikh 
 himself raised the curtain. 
 
 "Dearest, you should have been asleep hours 
 ago," she remonstrated. "And you have been 
 writing, too," glancing at the pen in his hand. "Do 
 you know what the time is? Nearly one o'clock."
 
 168 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 "I have been engaged on a matter of importance." 
 He interposed his frail body between her and the 
 writing- table, and she noticed that the fingers 
 which swiftly gathered up the sheets and locked 
 them in a drawer were trembling. "But come in 
 and stay a little while before you go to bed. Child, 
 you look tired and distressed." 
 
 "No, father. I feel a little anxious about Lance, 
 that is all. He went down to the town about nine 
 o'clock with a number of friends. It is very late, 
 and you know how unsafe some of the roads are at 
 such an hour." 
 
 The sheikh swung round, eyeing her sympatheti- 
 cally. 
 
 "I see ; you have not forgotten your own unpleas- 
 ant experience. But believe me, there is no danger 
 where a man is concerned. Lance is quite capable 
 of looking after himself ... I am rather surprised 
 he should have left you alone. Why did you not go 
 with him?" 
 
 "It is a man's club. He has gone to play bil- 
 liards." 
 
 His long fingers drummed on the glass-topped 
 table. 
 
 "I was thinking rather of the principle. It is not 
 for me to interfere, but I do not approve of a woman 
 so near to becoming a bride being left alone. These 
 English are strange men ; have you noticed a cold- 
 ness in their manner towards you?" 
 
 Absolute frankness had always existed from 
 childhood between Saada and her parent. She
 
 THE SACRED CIRCLE 169 
 
 answered without the slightest suggestion of bitter- 
 ness, yet not without a touch of regret. 
 
 "I am almost beginning to doubt the wisdom of 
 my decision. I love Lance, father, very dearly 
 indeed, but all along I have feared that being of 
 different race, of different blood, he will suffer for 
 marrying me." 
 
 Sheikh Medene drew the folds of his loose silk 
 robe about him and leaned back in the long chair, 
 his fingers making an apex above his knees. 
 
 "You have noticed the coldness and suspicion 
 with which the rhoumis regard us?" he repeated. 
 
 "One cannot help noticing it, father. In the 
 streets, the public places, we are objects of silent 
 contempt. For myself I care little: I think only 
 of him." 
 
 "You mean . . . when you are married there 
 may be a drifting apart?" 
 
 "I can't see anything else," she replied. "I 
 wouldn't for worlds let him know I am hurt because 
 his friend's invitation was deliberately framed to 
 exclude me. I told him to go and enjoy himself. 
 He does not think he left me with an aching heart." 
 
 "And yet you love him, Saada?" There was a 
 note of interrogation in the gentle voice. "You 
 feel you can find happiness with him?" 
 
 "While I was in England I owed to him all the 
 happiness I ever knew. He stood between me and! 
 the scorn of his own people. For that I admired 
 him : in time my admiration changed to love . . . 
 at least," her words coming in a breathless whisper,
 
 170 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "I suppose it is love when you agree to surrender 
 yourself to a man." 
 
 Medene ran his fingers thoughtfully through his 
 thin grey beard. 
 
 "I have always looked upon Railsford as a noble 
 character, Saada. It struck me very much when I 
 heard of your engagement, because the white man 
 who binds himself to a woman of the East takes a 
 great responsibility. I will not admit I have 
 never admitted that the best of our people are in- 
 ferior to the European; but I have lived long 
 enough to understand the prejudice of the white 
 for the coloured races. I had hoped, dear child," 
 his voice becoming tender, "that Lance cared 
 enough to put you before anything; instead, I fear 
 he will allow blood prejudice to raise a barrier be- 
 tween you." 
 
 Saada turned a regretful, look on her father's 
 troubled face. 
 
 "That's just what I feel, dear. I had expected 
 to be so happy. There is nothing in the world 
 I wouldn't do for Lance. But I know if he ever 
 feels ashamed of me I shall be miserable. In the 
 European quarter, French, English, Maltese, and 
 Sicilians step aside for me to pass . . . when we 
 are together; but in their hearts they despise me. 
 And those of our own race . . . oh, you know 
 what it is, father! They look with scornful eyes 
 and say with contempt, 'There goes one of our 
 own blood who would defile both herself and us 
 by marriage with a dog of an Infidel.' In England
 
 THE SACKED CIRCLE 171 
 
 these things bothered me in a vague indefinite 
 sort of way; out here they are a living force. 
 Tonight I sat alone in the garden. I asked my- 
 self what to do for the best . . . whether to give 
 Lance up or to go on in the hope of making him 
 happy." 
 
 "You believe, my dear one, he really cares for 
 you?" 
 
 "I do! I do!" clasping her small hands to- 
 gether. "That is what hurts me so to think of 
 giving him up after all he has done for me. No," 
 with a hopeless littl'e quiver trembling her lips, 
 "I must go on and trust that when we are mar- 
 ried all will be well." 
 
 Sheikh Medene rose, and moving towards her, 
 rested the tips of his fingers lightly on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Believe me, all will go well, my beloved," he 
 said. "For long I have fought a great battle in 
 my heart, and my love for you, greater than love 
 of myself, has won. Tonight I would reveal a 
 lifelong secret to set the seal of happiness upon 
 your future. By my confession I sweep all diffi- 
 culties away. Saada, the truth no longer shall 
 be hidden from thee: thou art no child of mine, 
 but flesh and blood of an English father and an 
 English mother."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS 
 
 A SENSE of unreality seized upon Saada; 
 everything was disproportionate; her 
 father's voice a faint echo that seemed to 
 come from a very long way off. The lights were 
 fading to an all engulfing darkness ; the floor began 
 to slip beneath her; she felt herself falling 
 falling from a great height into the darkness of 
 oblivion. 
 
 The experience was transitory; when she had 
 passed her hands across her eyes the room and the 
 lights came back; she still sat in the same chair, 
 and Sheikh Medene himself, no longer unreal and 
 phantasmal, was bending over her, his lined face 
 full of solicitude. 
 
 "Dear, I should have prepared you," he said, 
 tenderly caressing her dead cold hands. "The 
 shock has been too great. And yet I cannot keep 
 back the truth any longer. It is Allah's will that I 
 lose you . . . forfeit for ever the love and respect 
 you have always given me. Saada, beloved, no 
 longer my child, but ruler of my happiness ... I 
 bow myself in sorrow at your feet to crave for- 
 giveness." 
 
 "Dear, there is nothing to forgive!" she an- 
 
 172
 
 SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS 173 
 
 swered, clinging to him with her arms about his 
 bowed shoulders. "I have always belonged to you, 
 
 my father. This news cannot be true. There 
 must be a mistake. I do not wish to be different. 
 
 1 want only to belong to you. Tell me," lifting her 
 lips to his cheek, "why have you said this? To lift 
 me up in the eyes of my lover; to make me happy? 
 Indeed, I can never know happiness apart from 
 you, my dear one. You have been both my father 
 and my mother." 
 
 "Yet indeed am I neither," he answered, avert- 
 ing his gaze. "Behold in me merely Sheikh Ibra- 
 him Ben Medene, lord of Sidi Ochfar, no more 
 than friend to your father and mother, whose souls 
 rest in Paradise. See," glancing at the clock on 
 the writing-table, "the hour grows late, and 
 already you have endured much suffering of mind 
 and body. Sleep now, my little one, and in peace. 
 At sunrise we will meet again here in this room 
 and then the veil of mystery shall be lifted, and 
 all beyond made plain." 
 
 Saada shook her head. 
 
 "I could not sleep, dear. I am too unsettled. 
 You must tell me now. Tomorrow, perhaps who 
 knows it may be too late." 
 
 The aged Arab moved towards the table and 
 gathered up the closely-written sheets. He spoke 
 with his face turned to the wall. 
 
 "At any hour now the will of Allah may be done. 
 I feel the time of passing very near. My trem- 
 bling feet are being drawn to the golden gates, be-
 
 174 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 yond which stretches the Infinite in which I shall 
 have my part. May the Great and Wise One who 
 controls the destinies of weak and evil men give me 
 courage to endure this my heart's affliction. With 
 my eyes towards Mecca and with a sincere heart 
 I offer this prayer to Allah who is God, the one 
 God." 
 
 He raised his hands to his forehead, touched each 
 ear with his thumb, and keeping his palms out- 
 ward, he said, "Allah is great !" After which, with 
 his right hand resting on the left, "Holiness to 
 thee, O Lord. Praise to Thee. Greatness is Thy 
 Name." 
 
 The thin, careworn body bent forward ; with his 
 head lowered and his fingers touching his knees, 
 he went on, "I extol the sanctity of Allah." 
 
 Saada watched in awed silence the conclusion of 
 the prayer. The old man touched the floor with 
 his brow, and she heard the throbbing whisper, 
 "I extol the greatness of the Lord, the Most High," 
 and the last triumphant pronouncement as with 
 the finger of his right hand raised, he cried, "I 
 affirm by the grace within me, there is no God but 
 one God, that Mahommet is his Prophet." 
 
 The prayer finished, he turned and handed the 
 girl the papers. 
 
 "I have made my peace with the Most High. 
 Now must I make my peace with thee, O daughter 
 of goodness and great charity. Here is the confes- 
 sion which shall stand for ever as a record between 
 me and thy people."
 
 SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS 175 
 
 Tremblingly Saada's grip closed upon the docu- 
 ment. From weakness the old man was shaking, 
 so she heaped a pile of cushions on the floor and 
 made him sit down. He sat cross-legged at her 
 feet, and with streaming eyes looked up into her 
 face. 
 
 "Wilt thou love me when thou knowest all?" he 
 asked in a quavering whisper. 
 
 Her soft fingers lovingly touched the lines of 
 care on his forehead. 
 
 "Always I shall love thee, my father. I will not 
 read the words thou hast written. From thy lips 
 the truth shall come. Neither barriers of race nor 
 colour can ever divide us." 
 
 The assurance calmed him. He clasped his 
 hands in the loose folds of his robe and said in a 
 more calm voice, 
 
 "This is the story of Ibrahim Ben Medene, told 
 with the lips of penitence to Marcella, child of 
 Charles and Esther Denton, of Carrisfort, Eng- 
 land. It was at the end of the great feast of Rah- 
 madan five and twenty years ago that Allah, of his 
 infinite wisdom, brought into my lonely life your 
 father and your mother. Your father was a great 
 scholar whose heart was given to the study of East- 
 ern languages and traditions. He came to Tunis 
 a poor gentleman, to seek my aid in translating the 
 original of the Koran. For six years we worked 
 together until his death. The work was not quite 
 finished. I completed it, and sent it to England. 
 Payment was never made. Your mother did not
 
 176 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 know. She was without means : without a piastre 
 in the world. So I made payment to her, letting 
 her believe the money came from England. Six 
 months after your father's death you were born 
 ... in my house. For long your mother lay ill 
 ... so ill that at length, on the advice of an Arab 
 physician, I had you both taken to my palace 
 across the desert in the region of El Sid. There 
 it seemed as though she would recover . . . and 
 for two years we lived there happily. Oh, hear me, 
 child, and if it is in the goodness of your heart 
 forgive. Ibrahim Medene, the lonely Arab sheikh, 
 had learned to love the poor white lady." 
 
 <r 5Tou loved my mother?" Saada muttered. 
 
 He bowed his grey head. 
 
 "Indeed, with my whole heart. But she never 
 knew. For the honour of him who was dead I 
 kept the knowledge sealed in my bosom. At her 
 passing I gave all my love and devotion to you 
 flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood . . . and I 
 brought you up as my own child." 
 
 Saada drew a long deep breath of amaze. 
 
 "I have always looked upon myself as an Arab 
 girl." 
 
 The sheikh crossed his hands upon his bosom. 
 
 "Therein lies my wrong to you. So great was 
 my love, I could not let you go. Your parents had 
 both told me that all their people in England were 
 dead. They had no relatives. Could I send you 
 back to your native land without friends, without 
 man or woman to lavish love and care upon you?
 
 SECEET OF LONG-DEAD YEABS 177 
 
 I could not do it. And yet I dared not keep you 
 without the consent of the British authorities. So 
 I bound all the servants of my house to secrecy and 
 told them that henceforth the world was to regard 
 you as my own child. I gave you the name of 
 Saada, which means Happiness, because since your 
 birth, happiness had come to me." 
 
 "And yet my real name is Marcella?" 
 
 "Marcella is the name your mother would have 
 given you, had there been a Christian imam near to 
 give you baptism. The years passed . . . such 
 happy years . . . until you were ten. The thought 
 came to me one day to take you back to Tunis, and 
 surrender you to the care of your own country- 
 women. But I found that your birth was forgot- 
 ten . . . your father and mother no longer in re- 
 membrance. I yielded once more to the tempta- 
 tion to keep you for my own ... to bring you up 
 to womanhood as my own child. Saada, beloved, 
 are the wells of compassion still deep enough to 
 forgive the. one who has wronged you?" 
 
 Her hand reached out and touched his bowed 
 head. 
 
 "Indeed, there is nothing for me to forgive, my 
 dear father. You have always been so good to me." 
 
 He went on, after a little silence, 
 
 "In a little while it became necessary to broaden 
 your education. Having once taken the step in 
 wrong, there was no going back. I feared the con- 
 sequences of my sin, and the risk of losing you 
 . . . the greatest treasure left in my solitary life.
 
 178 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 I sent you to Paris to be educated; later to Eng- 
 land, where your happy girlhood years were passed. 
 There is little more to tell ; when misfortune came 
 upon me and my means failed, you did a noble 
 thing in seeking to support yourself. I lived alone 
 in my house in Tunis, striving to amass money so 
 that when the hand of death took me I could leave 
 some recompense for my wrong." 
 
 "I do not want money, I am content so long as 
 I have you," she said, clinging to him and crying 
 quietly. 
 
 "Then came the great glad news of your return 
 to Africa. I meant to tell you then. I found you 
 quite happy. The truth would never have been 
 revealed for in my heart I was a great coward. 
 Then I began to understand your supposed Arab 
 parentage had begun to raise a barrier between 
 vou and your future husband's people. I have 
 seen the clouds gathering. Tonight I prayed to 
 Allah that my resolution should not fail. I sat 
 down in this room, alone, to w r rite the story of your 
 birth and upbringing. By the hope of Paradise 
 within me, all this is the truth." 
 
 She lowered her head and pressed her lips upon 
 his brow. Their hands met and for a time no word 
 passed between them. In the silence he read the 
 compassion in her soul, and the dawn of hope be- 
 gan to break upon the darkness. 
 
 "So at your hands I find mercy?" he said in a 
 quavering whisper. 
 
 She held the frail body fast.
 
 SECKET OF LONG-DEAD YEAKS 179 
 
 "More than mercy love, my great love for you. 
 The sun has shone through many days that might 
 have been dark for me: tomorrow it will shine 
 again for you." 
 
 She knew that the picturesque Eastern imagery 
 would please him. A smile irradiated the worn 
 features. 
 
 "May the past never press heavily upon the pres- 
 ent or the future/' he said. "We will look to- 
 gether to the break of a brighter, better day. The 
 truth will help disperse the clouds that have gath- 
 ered, and will give joy to the man who will wed 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, I am certain Lance will be pleased," she 
 agreed. "Not that it will make much difference, in 
 one way, to him. I believe he loves me for myself 
 alone. His mother, however, does not think or feel 
 the same. We get on very well together, but she 
 has never lost sight of the fact that I was Arab 
 born." 
 
 "And now you will be able to tell her . . . that 
 you, even as she is, are of pure English blood," the 
 sheikh said with childish simplicity. 
 
 "Yes, of English blood," she repeated thought- 
 fully. "You say my father's name was Denton 
 and that he came from a place called Carrisfort?" 
 
 "Charles Denton, of Carrisfort, in Devonshire. 
 It is, I believe, only a small place what you call a 
 village. Once, there were many Dentons there, 
 and they lived in a large house. But with the pass- 
 ing of time the family fortunes decayed; your
 
 grandfather was the imam clergyman you call 
 him of that place, and this Charles was his only 
 son. He went as a boy to a famous school, and 
 later to the University of Oxford, to Christ's Col- 
 lege, I believe. As a young man he drifted East 
 to Cairo to study languages there, and met your 
 mother. She, I believe, was the daughter of an 
 English officer killed in the Egyptian war. Often 
 I have heard them say that they two were alone in 
 the world. When they had gone there* was no one 
 but me to care for you." 
 
 "I shall never forget," she said, regarding him 
 fondly. "You have given me all I could desire : the 
 shelter of your home, education, your love. Oh, I 
 cannot pretend I am not happy at the news! 
 Always I have loved England and the English 
 people. Now I know that I am one of them I am 
 glad because of the joy it will bring to Lance." 
 
 The sheikh raised his head. 
 
 "It is very late . . . the clock shows the hour of 
 two." 
 
 "I fancy I hear him coming. Yes," as the gravel 
 crunched under the window, "that is Lance's step. 
 I am glad he is safely home." 
 
 The sheikh rose and pointed to the papers. 
 
 "You will lock them away and keep them in safe 
 keeping. Later, I have a few other things to give 
 you . . . your mother's rings and a seal that was 
 your father's. I hear the closing of the door. You 
 will go to Lance and break the good news to 
 him?"
 
 SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS 181 
 
 She pursed her lips suddenly and shook her head 
 in firm decision. 
 
 "No, I shall not tell him, father, until we are 
 man and wife. He will marry me for myself alone. 
 This shall be my wedding surprise for my hus- 
 band. Not a living soul, save you and I not even 
 dear old Yakoub shall share it until I am mar- 
 ried. Don't you see how much happier I shall 
 always be ... knowing that Lance made me his 
 wife because he loved me in spite of race, colour, 
 or the opinions of his friends? And if ever I am 
 tempted to feel bitter against those who turned 
 their backs on me ... I shall always have the 
 thought to treasure . . . that my husband stood by 
 me through everything." 
 
 A slow, perplexed smile lit the old man's face. 
 
 "It is difficult to understand the heart of a 
 woman," he said, patting her shoulder affection- 
 ately. "I find it almost impossible to realize that 
 you bear me no ill will for keeping the secret so 
 long. I feared so much, child, to lose you. But 
 now I know " 
 
 "You will never Jose* me. You are still my 
 father I shall so think of you always. The love 
 you have shown me will never be forgotten. I I 
 am very happy." 
 
 She stood in the middle of the room, her soft 
 brown arms resting on his shoulders, her fingers 
 interlocked behind his bowed head. Upstairs a 
 door closed quietly. Railsford had retired, little 
 dreaming of the scene being enacted below.
 
 182 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Saada felt far too excited to sleep. She 
 wanted to run away to a spot where she could be 
 quite alone to muse over this strange turn of 
 fortune's wheel. To rejoice in the new-found 
 knowledge was no disrespect to the aged man 
 whom she had always looked upon as her 
 father; she knew now why, through the long years 
 passed under northern Skies, all her instincts and 
 feelings had been so purely English. The blood 
 that ran in her veins was stronger even than the 
 influence of an early Eastern upbringing. 
 
 "You must sleep," she said, kissing the sheikh's 
 forehead. "I will take great care of the papers; 
 do not be afraid I shall lose them." 
 
 "There are others," he told her, walking at her 
 side, his flat heelless shoes making no sound in the 
 thick pile Of the carpet. "Your parents' mar- 
 riage certificate, the few pieces of jewellery and a 
 packet of letters. Good-night, my dear one." 
 
 "Good-night, my father," she answered. 
 
 The door closed behind the frail old man; she 
 passed out into the deserted vestibule and stole like 
 a shadow into the dark of the sleeping gardens. 
 Among the bushes a few cicadas shrilled and fire- 
 flies made fancy play of flame and colour against 
 the sapphire curtain of night. The light in Lance's 
 bedroom snapped out, and was followed a few min- 
 utes later by the sheikh's. She felt no sense of 
 isolation; rather a tense exhilaration filled her at 
 the thought of the secret which the last few hours 
 had given into her keeping. Looking into the
 
 SECRET OF LONG-DEAD YEARS 183 
 
 future but a little while since clouded by de- 
 pressing uncertainties she saw only care-free 
 years . . . the great barrier of blood at last broken 
 down. For Lance's sake she felt more pleased 
 than for her own; the sweeping away of difficul- 
 ties that might have proved a real burden to him 
 no longer existed. 
 
 She walked rapidly, her step as light as her 
 heart. Life had suddenly become a song of 
 thankfulness and hope. She could look to the 
 future now with unshadowed eyes; the gloom had 
 passed and before her lay the dawn of love and 
 happiness.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 
 
 ON the following Thursday morning the 
 wedding took place in the little Protes- 
 tant church behind the native quarter. 
 There was very little fuss or ceremony, save for 
 the special decoration of the somewhat plain in- 
 terior with a wealth of blooms provided by the 
 sheikh. Only a few friends were present. The 
 English clergyman, who served a large district 
 lying between the frontiers of the two countries, 
 travelled up by car from Abd-el-Hamada to per- 
 form the ceremony, after which Saada and her hus- 
 band drove back to the hotel. 
 
 Outwardly she was very calm, her beautiful face 
 wreathed with happy smiles, but in her heart was 
 the excited longing to break the wonderful secret. 
 
 On the verandah Monsieur Gourron, the pro- 
 prietor, greeted them with a well-prepared 
 little speech in which on behalf of himself and 
 his entire staff he wished them a long and happy 
 married life. Then he presented an immense 
 bouquet, after which he asked the acceptance of 
 a gift especially sent down by the works' inspec- 
 tor of the company. 
 
 Amid a general chorus of congratulations, led 
 
 184
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 185 
 
 by Mr. Snitch and his daughter, they went to the 
 private room, where a luncheon had been prepared, 
 and Yakoub entered carrying a tray heaped with 
 telegrams. 
 
 Lance took them and moved towards Saada, sur- 
 rounded by her guests. 
 
 "We will share them between us, dear," he said 
 lightly, as he handed a batch to her. "My first is 
 from General Bailey, who wires from Sfax. Here, 
 this should have been opened by you from your 
 friend John Williams" smiling good-naturedly. 
 "Goodness knows how the news could have reached 
 Batna . . . anyway, what he says is very nice and 
 very appropriate." 
 
 Saada blushed as she read the message. 
 
 "With all my heart I wish you and your husband 
 every joy and blessing. JOHN WILLIAMS." 
 
 She turned and handed the slip to Theodore 
 Snitch, who was chatting gaily to the sheikh. 
 
 "He can't have received your letter, or he would 
 certainly have come," she said lightly. "I'm rather 
 anxious to know whether he will secure the 
 appointment." 
 
 The millionaire laughed. 
 
 "My dear lady, you need have no fears. After 
 all you have told me, backed by your husband's 
 recommendation, John Williams is my man. Don't 
 you think, Mr. Railsford," moving over to where 
 Lance stood exchanging laughing pleasantries with
 
 186 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Yakoub, "it's up to us to do all we can for a fellow 
 who's trying to stand on his own feet?" 
 
 The conversation drifted to a confused hum in 
 Saada's ears. The interest for a moment had 
 shifted to Theodore Snitch and her husband. 
 iEven the sheikh was taking part in it. Her eyes 
 were riveted on the last telegram she had opened. 
 Unlike Lance, who, as each came up for scrutiny, 
 tore the covering hastily, she had merely lifted 
 the lightly-gummed flap and withdrawn the slip 
 of flimsy white paper. The cablegram was in- 
 tended for her husband; the fact was indicated in 
 every word of the message : still she read it to the 
 end. 
 
 "Postpone wedding at any cost. Your uncle's entire 
 fortune left to you. Say nothing to anybody but re- 
 turn to England alone immediately. MOTHER." 
 
 Saada could have laughed aloud at the irony of 
 fate, which by the space of one short hour had 
 robbed Helen Kailsford of the power to change her 
 future. She herself had never been insensible to 
 the silent antagonism of this proud, hard woman. 
 Here the same spirit was expressed in terms quite 
 unmistakable . . . the putting off of the marriage, 
 the good fortune to be guarded as a precious secret, 
 the return home of her son, without the woman to 
 whom he had pledged his life and honour. 
 
 The hideousness of the suggestion angered 
 rather than hurt her. And yet she could feel little 
 but contempt for this wretched creature whose
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 187 
 
 venom had been spent in vain. Powerless now was 
 she, or any one, to alter the irrevocable; nothing 
 could change the fact of her marriage. 
 
 Mechanically she folded the sheet and put it back 
 in the thin blue envelope. Under the warmth of 
 her fingers the gum set fast. Conscious that some 
 one was speaking to her, yet blind to the meaning 
 of the words, she turned away and picked up a 
 wedding gift which had just been presented. The 
 little throng drifted her way again; through the 
 press she caught a glimpse of her husband's smiling 
 face. He bent towards her and took the little 
 sheaf of unopened telegrams from her nerveless 
 clasp. 
 
 "I'll help read yours," he said. "There's such 
 a funny one from the two American people we 
 met in Tunis." 
 
 Saada looked up, her brain trying to frame an 
 excuse to keep him from reading the telegrams. 
 The effort failed. 
 
 "Which Americans?" she said almost stupidly. 
 "Did we ever meet any in Tunis?" 
 
 Railsford laughed boisterously. 
 
 "Of course you remember . . . the pretty little 
 dark woman who astounded us by introducing 
 Hamon K. Spargo as her fourth husband . . . the 
 other three having been divorced by her in differ- 
 ent States for trivial incompatibilities of temper. 
 Don't you recollect saying you hoped she wouldn't 
 get rid of Spargo on the ground of too easy com- 
 pliance with her wishes? Now I wonder who this
 
 188 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 one is from." A moment's tense pause, then, 
 "Saada . . . I've got . . . bad news from home." 
 
 The glance she directed at him as he reread his 
 mother's message was curiously calm. Yet behind 
 it lurked a dread more poignant than she had ever 
 known. 
 
 "What is wrong, Lance?" she asked quietly. 
 
 A hush had fallen on the company. Railsford 
 winced under the directness of his young wife's 
 look, and with slow deliberation placed the folded 
 cablegram in his pocket. 
 
 "A message has come through from some one at 
 Redlands to say mother is dangerously ill. I'm 
 afraid there's nothing for it but to leave at once." 
 
 Saada ( stood motionless, impassive, under the 
 shock of her husband's falsehood, her face as waxen 
 as the flowers with which she was surrounded. She 
 felt cold. She tried to speak. Her head drooped 
 and for a moment she gave no sign that she fully 
 understood. 
 
 The wave of weakness passed : questions and 
 commiseration poured in on Railsford from every 
 side; he met them with a smile of assumed grati- 
 tude, and, moving to his wife, took her hand in his. 
 
 "I'm ever so sorry, little sweetheart," he 
 whispered. "I would have given worlds to save 
 you this on our wedding-day. But you realize, 
 don't you? ... I must go." 
 
 She could not trust herself to look at him yet. 
 Her voice came in a lifeless whisper, 
 
 "Of course if your mother is dangerously ill . . .
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 189 
 
 your place is with her. A son's first duty is to his 
 mother." 
 
 "You feel that, don't you?" he said self-ex- 
 cusingly. "It is terrible to have to leave you . . . 
 on our wedding-day, too but I feel I ought to go." 
 
 "Yes, you ought to go," she admitted mechani- 
 cally. "I quite understand." 
 
 Sheikh Medene turned from one to the other in 
 amazement. 
 
 "You mean . . . you will be returning to Eng- 
 land without Saada?" 
 
 Lance drew him aside. 
 
 "I don't see what else can be done. It is a long 
 and expensive journey; and, as you know, my 
 means are small. Besides, why harrow her with 
 what must, after all, be only a very distressing 
 affair? She is best out of it ... to stay here 
 alone with you until I return. Of course, I shall 
 hope for the best, and I shall get back with all possi- 
 ble speed. Yakoub" the servant bustled forward 
 "will you inquire of the company's agent how 
 soon a car can be here to take me to Biskra? By 
 driving through the night I may be able to catch 
 tomorrow's train. Saada, I hope you're not very 
 upset?" 
 
 Her voice was slightly hysterical. 
 
 "I I don't know what to say, Lance. It has 
 happened ... so suddenly. I had no idea your 
 mother was ill." 
 
 "Nor had I," he admitted. "In her last letter 
 to me she spoke of being quite well, and of returning
 
 190 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 to El Bouira as soon as my uncle was convalescent. 
 I suppose, though, the strain of nursing him has 
 proved too much. She was never over-strong." 
 
 Saada knew that all the time he was fighting 
 out in the depths of his warped nature the conflict 
 between his shallow passion for her and the cupid- 
 ity which his mother's news had aroused. And, 
 all along the line, his ignoble self was winning. 
 Just as clearly might those lips which had so cruelly 
 tried to deceive her be saying, "I am sorry now 
 that I married you. You are alien to me, by blood 
 and race. I have been suddenly given great riches. 
 I go back to a position of wealth and honour. My 
 people would scorn me were I to return with an 
 Arab bride. It is best you should never know the 
 true reason for my going." 
 
 And then from sheer weariness she tried to be- 
 lieve she was deceiving herself and wronging him 
 too. In a little while, when the first wave of self- 
 ishness had passed, he would think of her, and his 
 love would return. Now he was being carried 
 away by the force of his mother's influence ; in time 
 the full realization of his cruelty would bring 
 remorse. 
 
 "You must go," she said in a voiceless whisper. 
 "Lose no time. Yakoub will help you pack." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I shall be all right," she answered. "I have 
 still my father." 
 
 She had not forgotten the secret which her heart 
 held. It lay behind her, a useless, dead thing. Of
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 191 
 
 course sh could tell him, and that might alter 
 everything. In that moment of wild, unreasoning 
 conflict her pride won and sealed her lips to silence. 
 The man who had" cast her away should never know 
 the full extent of his wrongdoing. 
 
 One by one the few guests, after a word or two of 
 sympathy, had slipped away. Many of the things 
 Lance required for the journey were at the villa. 
 To get off before the horror of his deception could 
 cause his resolution to waver was the one thought 
 that obsessed him. 
 
 As the big car drove up the sanded drive he 
 bustled into the room where Saada was with her 
 father. He looked pale and worried as he set down 
 the two hand cases. 
 
 "Try to bear up bravely, my wife," he said. "I 
 know the blow is terrible. But in a little while 
 everything will come right. I shall write to you 
 from Tunis, and again from Marseille; and from 
 England I will send a full account of everything. 
 Good-bye, sheikh . . . and good-bye, Saada." 
 
 He took her cold, inanimate form in his arms; 
 there was no warmth or compassion in the touch of 
 his lips; with eyes closed, she swayed unsteadily 
 when he released her . . . her glance followed him 
 to the door, and as he passed from her sight, the 
 light of day snapped out and she drifted away on 
 the untroubled waters of oblivion. 
 
 Was it the blinding whiteness of the rough sandy 
 road that prompted Lance to close in the car long 
 before the streets of El Bouira were left behind?
 
 192 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 He leaned back, breathless from the tense nerve- 
 strain of the last half-hour, and shut his eyes to 
 keep out the vision of Saada's face as he had last 
 looked upon it ... the face of a woman horror- 
 stricken. 
 
 He writhed in a torment of heart-searching un- 
 easiness; the stifling heat brought tiny rivulets of 
 moisture from his forehead to the corners of his 
 lips. Under the first tempestuous rush of temp- 
 tation it had been easy to tell the lie which his 
 mother's news had prompted; but now, with wave 
 upon wave of compunction and remorse beating in 
 and dashing to pieces the foundations on which the 
 falsehood had been built, he began to feel incapable 
 of sustaining the role he had adopted. Terror 
 seized him : the horror of an act so cruel that his 
 soul revolted against the consequences. In a night- 
 mare of gloom he reached the villa which was to 
 have been his home. 
 
 The rooms echoed dully to his tread; the labour 
 of loving hands mocked him for his perfidy. He 
 passed, a pitiful object, into the sleeping apart- 
 ment prepared for his and Saada's homecoming. 
 Through the open window the desert wind blew 
 softly, but fevered rather than cooled the burning 
 in his veins. The cloying perfume of the flowers 
 sickened him; the gentle tapping of the star-like 
 clusters of purple bougainvillea against the jalousie 
 blinds set his nerves jangling. He was conscious 
 of a moral cowardice as deep as his obliquity. He
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 193 
 
 possessed neither the courage to turn back to plead 
 forgiveness nor to go on in his self-chosen path. 
 Three times he packed and unpacked the large suit- 
 case, littering the things which Saada's hands had 
 so carefully arranged, in a disordered mess around 
 him. In despair he took the cablegram from his 
 pocket and read it again. Behind every word 
 lurked the clearness of his mother's* purpose. She 
 might have said, "You are now an immensely rich 
 man with a high position to maintain. To have as 
 your wife a woman of colour must be fatal bar to 
 the position you will take up. Make any excuse 
 to get away from her to free yourself. Come 
 back to England untrammelled, and keep your 
 good fortune, for the present, a secret." He had 
 understood all she meant to convey, and in under- 
 standing had acquired resolution. For a time the 
 lure of money had hypnotized him, but now the 
 effect was wearing off. He looked about him in 
 helpless indecision, one moment torn with restless 
 longing to repair the evil and to seek again his 
 happiness with Saada ; the next, spurred on to keep 
 his fatal course, by sheer dread of the consequences 
 of his action. 
 
 To go back must be to confess his wrong. He 
 could not do that. 
 
 To keep on ... perhaps time would! show a 
 middle course in which Saada could take her part. 
 Thank God she knew nothing of what had prompted 
 him to this !
 
 194 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 A heavy step in the hall below caused him to 
 start guiltily. He heard the chauffeur's voice call- 
 ing from the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "If monsieur would catch* the train he must 
 hurry." 
 
 "Coming, Francois, coming!" he answered, and 
 marvelled at the weakness of his voice. He made 
 an effort to control himself, and tossed the clothes 
 into the case again. He skirted the bed and 
 Saada's dressing-table on which were displayed the 
 set of gold-mounted tortoiseshell brushes which had 
 formed his wedding-present, and groped a blind 
 way to the door. He half wished that she would 
 come, and by a look, a word, or gesture of reproach 
 break his resolution. At the open door to the cosy 
 smoke-room, on the table of which lay the gold and 
 silver damascened dagger bought in the native 
 quarter of Constantine, he sharply averted his 
 gaze, and handing the luggage to Francois moved 
 to the car. 
 
 "We can have the covering down now," he mut- 
 tered, his glance passing over the lonely waste of 
 sand gleaming like burnished gold under the eye 
 of the sun. "There is more wind than in the 
 streets. Drive as fast as you can to make up 
 time." 
 
 The cigar which he had lighted seemed to soothe 
 his nerves; he settled himself comfortably and 
 tried to review the situation with sober reasoning. 
 Of course Saada would feel the shock of his going. 
 
 Time, however, would soften the blow, and long
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 195 
 
 before he reached England she would have become 
 accustomed to the changed conditions. Not that 
 he meant to leave her always ; in spite of his moth- 
 er's wishes, Saada was still his wife, and must find 
 some place in his life. Perhaps, being now a rich 
 man, he could so arrange matters that it would be 
 possible to spend part of the year on his estate 
 the message clearly indicated that the property 
 had been left absolutely to him and the rest of the 
 time in North Africa. One point, however, 
 emerged quite clearly it would be suicidal to 
 think of bringing her back to England. The treat- 
 ment already experienced in El Bouira had shown 
 him the folly of such a course. 
 
 There was his work, ruthlessly abandoned in the 
 moment of good fortune. Strange he hadn't 
 thought of that to go to the office and settle up 
 his affairs. Yet not strange, considering the small- 
 ness of the position. He smiled derisively. If 
 Uncle Hugh had cut up for anything like the 
 amount he was reputed to possess, the income 
 could not possibly fall far short of thirty thou- 
 sand. 
 
 The desert, as it spun past, became a sea of gold, 
 the rivulets breaking free of the cool oases, rivers of 
 crystal that trailed away until the blue distance 
 swallowed them up. In an hour the unexpected had 
 happened, and he was rich for life. Admitted, he 
 had made one false step by marrying Saada; but 
 even that was a step not altogether regretted. 
 There was a deal of love for her still in his heart;
 
 196 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 he believed it possible to find more than a meed of 
 happiness with her when time should have given 
 him the chance to make more settled arrangements. 
 
 He was glad now he had not shown her the tele- 
 gram. Naturally, as his wife, she would have 
 felt her place was at his side. But it is one thing 
 for a poor man to live in comparative obscurity 
 with a woman of Eastern blood ; quite another for 
 a man of great wealth and important social posi- 
 tion. In that respect his mother was right, though 
 secretly he could not approve of the method em- 
 ployed to put her principle into practice. Had he 
 been left to his own devices he would have made 
 an effort to compromise with Saada, have pointed 
 out the difficulties in which his new responsibili- 
 ties placed him, and have suggested some reason- 
 able halfway ground on which each could stand 
 without detriment to the other. 
 
 So his mind and heart played the coward's part 
 of shifting the burden, of temporizing with truth, 
 of blinding conscience to the glaring iniquity of the 
 fault. 
 
 He reached Biskra at a late hour, yet in time 
 to visit the official representative there, to explain 
 matters and to communicate by cable with the For- 
 eign Office in London. Having made the drastic 
 cleavage, something of his customary confidence re- 
 turned. By Francois he sent back to Saada a long 
 letter, full of tender solicitude and regret for the 
 unavoidable parting. It was but a more thought- 
 ful elaboration of his brief farewell, so sincere on
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 197 
 
 the surface that it swept away the aggravating 
 twinges of remorse. To this deliberate lulling of 
 his own conscience he devoted himself assiduously, 
 all through the long journey home . . . telling him- 
 self again and again that some way would open up 
 whereby Saada might be accorded both justice and 
 consideration. 
 
 From Marseille he had wired to his mother the 
 time of his arrival. As the train drew into 
 Victoria through the dark fog of a cold November 
 afternoon, he caught sight of her, eagerly scanning 
 the long line of carriages. She waved to him, and 
 as he alighted, looked with supreme satisfaction on 
 his sun-burned face. What pleased her more, how- 
 ever, was the fact of his being alone. 
 
 "It is ever so good to see you again, Lance," she 
 said, kissing him with more than usual warmth. 
 "It seems years since we parted in Constantine, 
 and so much has happened since." 
 
 He forced a smile and fell in at her side as the 
 press closed round them. 
 
 "Yes, a great deal has happened," he admitted, 
 wondering how best to break the news which 
 troubled him. "Ami you are certainly looking 
 well." 
 
 Helen Railsford laughed complacently. 
 
 "My dear boy, I've never been better in my life. 
 Uncle Hugh's death was a real godsend. It has 
 given me quite a new lease of life. What about 
 your luggage, dear?" 
 
 "I've only these two cases," he answered. "I
 
 198 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 travelled on a brush and comb and pair of pajamas. 
 Now what are we going to do?" 
 
 "Well, I thought we might stay tonight at the 
 Grosvenor, put in tomorrow with the lawyers, so 
 that you will know just how matters stand, and go 
 down to the country by motor on Thursday. I 
 had the best of Uncle Hugh's cars brought up to 
 town ... in fact, I myself use it Mr. Strange- 
 ways raised no objection." 
 
 Lance merely smiled, faintly amused by the 
 thoroughness with which his mother had grasped 
 the new situation. 
 
 "Well, I suppose this good news is really true?" 
 he ventured, as the taxi purred out of the station 
 yard. 
 
 Helen Eailsford beamed. 
 
 "I was never so surprised in my life, Lance. I 
 arrived only ten days before your uncle passed 
 away. I think he must have endured a great deal. 
 However, doubtless the suffering softened him. 
 He was always a hard man, as you know. 
 But towards the last he came round to a 
 right way of thinking, and admitted he had never 
 treated me as a brother should. I told him I had 
 never borne him the slightest ill-will: that was 
 scarcely true; still, it sufficed. Two days before 
 he died ... I had talked a lot about you when 
 I found his thoughts centred in your direction 
 ... he made a fresh will and settled two thousand 
 a year on me for life: the residue is yours abso- 
 lutely."
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 199 
 
 The young man drew a deep sigh of content. 
 
 "And the residue, mother?" 
 
 "Well, there is a good deal of property in Lon- 
 don. I was talking to Mr. Strangeways about it 
 yesterday. It produces something like nine or ten 
 thousand a year. Then, of course, there is Lan- 
 dringham . . . the estate is very large one of the 
 biggest in Norfolk, with seven or eight outlying 
 farms. Altogether Mr. Strangeways thinks you 
 can look to a regular twenty-three thousand from 
 that source." 
 
 Railsford looked pleased. 
 
 "I had reckoned about thirty thousand a year 
 altogether. Good Lord!" laughing silently. 
 "What a windfall for a fellow who's been used to 
 grubbing along on a Government pittance." 
 
 The cab was stopping. Helen Kailsjford rose 
 and laid her hand on his sleeve. 
 
 "I told you, years ago, it might come at any time. 
 That was why I was so dead against your engage- 
 ment with Saada. By the by, how did you leave 
 her?" 
 
 "Oh, Saada is very well, thanks," he replied, 
 colouring. "Naturally, my coming away so sud- 
 denly surprised her. We'll talk about it later." 
 
 They plunged into the bustle at the hotel en- 
 trance and the lift carried them to the private suite 
 which Mrs. Railsford had engaged. 
 
 "I thought you'd prefer a quiet dinner with me 
 to the noise of the dining-room," she said, remov- 
 ing 1 her hat and coat. "Now let me look at you
 
 200 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 and see how the desert has treated you. Of course 
 you're very brown, and you look wonderfully well. 
 But I don't suppose you'll want to go back again." 
 
 Lance had halted by the long window, and his 
 troubled gaze took in the ebb and flow of traffic 
 and street life only vaguely discernible through 
 the dense, clammy mist. 
 
 "I don't know," he said gravely. "I suppose I 
 shall often long for the sun, the pure desert air, the 
 colour of an African town. In a very little time it 
 got hold of me: I didn't realize how much until I 
 landed in France, and saw dark forests and dreary 
 expanses swept by rain. Yes, this is splendid," as 
 his mother preceded him into the private sitting- 
 room, where covers had been set for two. "I'm not 
 altogether sorry to be in England again." 
 
 They talked commonplaces over the meal until 
 the waiter left and they were able to retire to their 
 sitting-room. The confession which Lance had to 
 make weighed so heavily on his mind that he re- 
 lapsed into a moody silence, till Mrs. Eailsford re- 
 marked, 
 
 "I was never so relieved in my life as when the 
 news of Hugh's illness brought me home. I simply 
 loathed the thought of an intimate association with 
 those dreadful Arab people. What occurred? 
 Did you get Saada's father to join you before you 
 left Constantine?" 
 
 Lance inclined his head. 
 
 "There was nothing else to do. I couldn't have 
 travelled all that way across the desert with Saada
 
 THE CABLEGRAM 201 
 
 alone. So we sent to the sheikh in Tunis an.d 
 asked him to join us." 
 
 Mrs. Railsford drew a chair to the fire and poked 
 the logs into a crackling blaze. Then she leaned 
 back, her fingers clasped in her lap. 
 
 "The sheikh is all right, a very nice old man, so 
 far as Arabs go, but I can't think how you managed 
 to exist with him all those weeks in an hotel. Did 
 he eat cous-cous and dip his fingers into the dish? 
 That is what most of them do." 
 
 Lance was looking vainly for a loophole or for 
 something to ease the situation. 
 
 "No, mother, I was agreeably surprised. I 
 found the old fellow most perfectly mannered. 
 You see, he spent a great deal of time in Western 
 Europe in his younger days, principally in Paris. 
 And among his own people he is most highly hon- 
 oured. I never before realized how cultured a well- 
 born aristocratic Arab could be. In El Bouira the 
 natives thought a great deal of him . . . more, in 
 fact, than most people thought of me." 
 
 "Naturally so." She lifted her hand to give 
 emphasis to the argument. "Nobody, native or 
 European, thinks anything of a white man engaged 
 to a black woman. The French and English cold- 
 shoulder you ; the Orientals regard you as beneath 
 contempt. And here at home the situation would 
 have been a hundred times worse. Just think: 
 you, the head* of a great house, a wealthy land- 
 owner, with a position to maintain in the country 
 ... it would have been terrible had you not taken
 
 202 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 the situation in time. That is why I wired as I 
 did ; the moment the breath was out of your uncle's 
 body I sent that message telling you what to do. 
 You must have managed very well or you wouldn't 
 be here now. But you haven't yet told me how you 
 got over the difficulty." 
 
 He leaned forward. 
 
 "I didn't get over it as I should like to have 
 done/' he said in a troubled whisper. "Saada and 
 I were married an hour before your cable arrived."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 
 
 HELEN RAILSFORD sat huddled in her 
 chair, a flabby, inert figure, incapable of 
 speech. There are some shocks so great 
 that they stun physically as well as mentally, leav- 
 ing the body as powerless as the tongue to respond 
 to the blow beneath which it is labouring. This 
 was one of them. In a moment her son's bald' 
 statement banished the illusions of weeks. She 
 had schemed and planned and built fairy castles in 
 the air from the time when grave-faced Mr. 
 Strangeways, standing in the middle of the great 
 library, had calmly read out the all-important 
 clause in Hugh Ferraby's will, 
 
 "And to my nephew Lance Bertram Railsford I 
 leave the residue of my property absolutely." 
 
 In that moment she had changed into a spinner 
 of dreams. She saw her son a power in the county, 
 a force more powerful than Ferraby with all his 
 money had ever been. Nothing but a miracle 
 could save him from greatness; from the consular 
 service to the diplomatic was but the shortest of 
 steps ; to a title, possibly a peerage, a question only 
 of time and arrangement. ... A union with a 
 daughter of a noble house must come in the inevi- 
 
 203
 
 204 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 table order of things. The former glories of a 
 once-powerful name would be restored in the per- 
 son of her son all this and more she had seen, 
 and dwelt upon with the passing *of the weeks, until 
 the fairy picture had become a living reality. 
 But, with a few breathless jerked-out words, Lance 
 himself had blown the fantasy into the air. 
 
 "You . . . you really don't mean it, Lance?" 
 she managed to get out. 
 
 His head drooped over his interlocked hands and 
 he stared moodily into the flames. The fire played 
 tricks of deep shadow and ruddy glow upon the 
 sombre face, and gave the restless woman the im- 
 pression that his mind was troubled on the same 
 score as her own. 
 
 "I do mean it, mother," he said, with an effort 
 to control himself. "Your cable should have 
 reached me the afternoon before the wedding. It 
 'didn't get to El Bouira until five minutes to seven 
 at night. They kept it back and sent it up with a 
 whole batch the next morning." 
 
 "Then you you are really married"?" 
 
 She pulled herself out of the dazed state and 
 nerved herself to face the shock* 
 
 "Actually married, dear. The wedding took 
 place at eleven o'clock in the morning of the six- 
 teenth as I had written you : I opened your wire 
 two hours later, just when we were ready to sit 
 down to luncheon." 
 
 "Oh, Heaven!" she whispered faintly, holding 
 her jewelled fingers over her eyes. "This is awful !
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 205 
 
 To think that after all the trouble I took to save 
 you . . . that girl . . . she's a clever, calculating, 
 unscrupulous little fiend. I knew it all along: I 
 told you so before you left England. She schemed 
 for years to catch you ever since you took her into 
 your office. And now . . . what a fool you were, 
 what an unutterable fool! Don't look at me like 
 that!" banging her hand in fury against her knee. 
 "I mean it. I mean it. You've spoilt your life, 
 and mine too. Nothing but social ruin and degra- 
 dation await you. Whatever made you do it?" 
 
 "I didn't know Uncle Hugh meant to leave me his 
 money," he replied weakly. "If I had " 
 
 "Know! You never know anything," she went 
 on. "Didn't I say, over and over again, he had no 
 one else to leave it to? He hated me ... as much 
 as I did him . . . and I had the sense to see it. 
 But you you were different. He had nothing 
 against you. It was as plain as the nose on your 
 face . . . you must be his heir. And in face of 
 that." her voice rising shrilly," you deliberately 
 chose to throw yourself away on a black woman 
 ... a nigger. Oh," with a hysterical gasp, "I 
 can't bear it! ... I simply can't." 
 
 "Mother, don't make a scene," he counselled, 
 setting a restraining grip on her shoulder. "Facts 
 must be faced. I'm married to Saada ... so 
 there's an end of it." 
 
 She looked at him with angry eyes. 
 
 "I I was always very fond of her," he continued 
 wearily. "I believe if this hadn't happened I
 
 206 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 should have settled down quite happily. Only, 
 when I read your wire, and I realized what 
 the money meant, the temptation came to cut and 
 run. I I almost wish I hadn't come home." 
 
 The woman's mouth curved in a sneer. 
 
 "A lot of use wishing that now. And if you 
 were so solicitous for my interest in the matter, 
 why didn't you break with her before you left Eng- 
 land? What did I say to you that last Sunday 
 at Redlands? I begged and prayed of you to give 
 her up. But you were obstinate, pig-headed. Now 
 see where it has landed you." 
 
 "I I came home," he muttered excusingly. 
 
 "You came home all right. And, thank good- 
 ness, you left her behind. That, however, doesn't 
 alter the essential fact. You are married . . . and 
 you can't marry again without committing bigamy." 
 
 "I've no desire to marry any one . . . even if I 
 could." His manner suggested weariness. "It 
 wasn't easy to leave her like that." 
 
 "Like what?" Helen Kailsford showed sudden 
 interest. 
 
 He stared moodily into the blaze. 
 
 "I had to tell a lot of lies. It wasn't a nice thing 
 to do ... to a girl like Saada. She always played 
 the game with me. I said you were ill almost 
 dying, or something of the sort, and on the strength 
 of it ... F came away." 
 
 The figure in the chair straightened. 
 
 "Then she doesn't know the real reason why
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 207 
 
 you left? Hadn't you the courage to break with 
 her definitely?" 
 
 Her scorn whipped a spot of colour into Bails- 
 ford's pallid cheeks. 
 
 "How could I? She trusted me ... and it was 
 her wedding-day. Heaven knows, I behaved rot- 
 tenly enough." 
 
 The woman groaned. 
 
 "Then the position is at any moment she may 
 turn up and claim her place as your wife?" 
 
 "Ye-yes. I couldn't prevent it." 
 
 A long pause followed, through which two minds 
 were busy, one looking forward, the other back into 
 the past. 
 
 Mrs. Kailsford slowly recovered her composure. 
 
 "There's only one thing to do, Lance to pension 
 her off. Like all coloured women, she's native at 
 heart . . . which means she has her price. You 
 must get rid of her, either with a lump sum or 
 an allowance. We had better take Strangeways' 
 opinion." 
 
 "Thanks" his tone determined. "I prefer to 
 keep this as much as possible a secret." 
 
 "But can you? The marriage is bound to be 
 reported in the little local paper, if there is one, 
 and copies may drift to England." 
 
 "I thought of that. Before I left Biskra I gave 
 the chauffeur a letter to* take to the editor of the 
 El BOUW& Gazette. No announcement will ap- 
 pear."
 
 208 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 She laughed a harsh, discordant note that set 
 his nerves jangling again-. 
 
 "At least you had the sense, then, to see eye to 
 eye with your mother, if you haven't now. I sup- 
 pose, though, quite a number of people know." 
 
 "Oh, lots," he answered drearily. "El Bouira 
 has a considerable European population. I can't 
 make out that I'm not married if that's what 
 you're thinking." 
 
 "I'm thinking only of you," she returned curtly; 
 "of the mess you've got yourself into. However," 
 her thoughts harking back, "it is quite evident we 
 can't hide up the marriage. The next thing to try 
 is to annul it." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "How can I? There's no cause. I went into 
 it of my own free will. We were married in the 
 English church." 
 
 "Saada is a Mahommedan. Can't you get out on 
 that count?" 
 
 "Saada is a professed Christian a confirmed 
 member of the Church of England." 
 
 "I thought once a Mahommedan always a 
 Mahommedan." 
 
 "Sheikh Medene never made any attempt to 
 force his religion on her. She told me . . . almost 
 his last words, when he sent her to Europe, were, 
 'Over your religious belief I wish to exercise no in- 
 fluence or control. Now that you have come to 
 years of discretion you are free to choose for your-
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 209 
 
 self.' I was surprised when I found out she had 
 embraced the Christian faith." 
 
 "Perttaps it will give her courage to face the 
 trouble she has got herself into/' the woman re- 
 torted. "The position seems to grow worse. I 
 suppose next you'll be telling me you've arranged 
 for her to follow you to England." 
 
 "No. I simply said you were ill and had sent 
 for me. She raised no objection to my coming 
 away." 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do?" The plump 
 fingers were extended over the fire to drive out the 
 dead coldness. "She can't appear at Landringham 
 as your wife. The entire county would turn its 
 back. At every turn both you and she and I, too 
 would be cold-shouldered. You would be ostra- 
 cised an object of contempt and derision." 
 
 "I suppose I should." A helpless sigh left him. 
 With a tired gesture he flung the charred end of 
 the cigar into the grate. "Certainly the position 
 looks difficult." 
 
 "It's worse than that." Helen Eailsford became 
 more decisive. "You would be a pariah, an outcast 
 among your own people. You know the position 
 you will have to occupy in the county the lord- 
 lieutenancy is almost as certain to come to you as 
 it did to Uncle Hugh. How can a man fill an im- 
 portant public position with a black wife?" 
 
 "It's hardly fair to call Saada black, mother." 
 
 She laughed.
 
 210 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "What about these Eurasians who come here 
 married to white men? Don't we regard them as 
 black, though their skins may be as white as yours? 
 And some of them are of high caste, too. Does any 
 one think anything of them, or receive them? Of 
 course not! You can't blend the West with the 
 East. English people won't put up with* it." 
 
 "It is difficult, I agree," he mumbled. 
 
 She regarded him with a look of unveiled con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "That's all you say, 'It is difficult.' Of course it's 
 difficult. You saw that a week ago, when first you 
 left her. But what I want to know is, what you 
 intend doing. You can't go on muttering, 'It's 
 difficult,' and leave her to come here and fasten 
 herself on you. That's what will happen, if you 
 don't stir yourself." 
 
 He turned like a baited animal at bay. 
 
 "Well, what do you suggest? I'm willing to do 
 anything for the best. I've already taken the 
 plunge by lying to her. Shall I write and say you 
 are still very ill, and it is quite out of the question 
 to leave you, but that when you're well again I'll 
 return to El Bouira? Is there anything in that?" 
 
 Mrs. Kailsford inclined her head. 
 
 "Just about as much as saying, 'I'm chained to 
 England for an indefinite period, so I think you had 
 better come home. 7 Of course, you know it won't 
 do. I can't imagine what's in the back of your 
 mind. You must break with her ... so why tem- 
 porize? You don't want her here."
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 211 
 
 "Perhaps it is best she shouldn't come." 
 
 "Best !" with a sneer. "What sort of a life would 
 it be ? No ; the course is clear . . . write and say 
 quite plainly your marriage was a mistake; you 
 never wish to see her again, but you are willing, 
 so long as she keeps oui of England, to make her 
 an adequate allowance." 
 
 Lance shifted uneasily. 
 
 "I'd never dreamt of anything quite so drastic. 
 Isn't there some milder course? I don't believe 
 money would appeal to Saada. She's not that 
 type of girl." 
 
 "Nonsense! Money appeals to every woman 
 especially an Arab. They worship jewellery and 
 pretty clothes. Give her enough to deck herself 
 out with and she'll never trouble you." 
 
 The nerve-strain had brought tiny beads of 
 moisture to Kailsford's forehead. He passed his 
 hand across his eyes, and rising unsteadily, moved 
 to the middle of the room. From the street rose 
 the dull roar of innumerable taxicabs. Yet with 
 his mind filled with the girl he had so cruelly, 
 deserted, El Bouira did not seem so very far away. 
 
 "If only I could be sure of never meeting her I 
 shouldn't mind," he reflected. "Supposing I sent 
 such a letter ... I wonder . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Kailsford turned impatiently. 
 
 "Why should you bother to write? Leave every- 
 thing to your lawyers. Tell them you were in- 
 veigled into a foolish marriage . . . since you have 
 come away you realize you don't care for her, and
 
 212 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 that it will be better for all parties concerned if 
 you go your respective ways. Strangeways can 
 put it much better than you can. He will say 
 you're not disposed to be ungenerous; that, pro- 
 Tided she remains in North Africa, and on a receipt 
 of a signed application each month, she will receive 
 an allowance of fifty pounds." 
 
 "How much is that? Six hundred a year. It 
 doesn't seem much out of thirty thousand. I be- 
 lieve she could claim more." 
 
 "Well, make it a hundred if you like. Twelve 
 hundred a year. I call that most handsome. She 
 wouldn't have had half as much had you stayed at 
 El Bouira." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it would do," he admitted, strok- 
 ing his chin-. "All the same, I very much doubt 
 if she will take it." 
 
 "You mean she won't think it enough?" 
 
 "Not that at all. I don't believe money will 
 compensate Saada one little bit. She never cared 
 how much or how little I had." 
 
 "Very well, then. Don't send any. Simply say 
 you don't wish to have anything to do with her. 
 In my opinion that is as much as she deserves-." 
 
 "I must do something," he said with sudden, 
 decision. "No, I shan't instruct Strangeways at 
 all. I'll do everything myself. It will have more 
 force coming from me. I'll go down and see the 
 place first, to make quite sure." 
 
 "Sure of what?" 
 
 "It's worth while breaking her heart."
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEAET 213 
 
 "At least you seem to understand her." 
 
 "I do, and I understand myself too. However, 
 I see your point of view, and tomorrow, if I come 
 round entirely to your way of thinking, I'll do as 
 you suggest." 
 
 Lance went down to Landringham in an un- 
 comfortable frame of mind. Impressed though he 
 had been from the first by his unexpected good for- 
 tune, he was not finding it easy to cut Saada en- 
 tirely out of his life. That it must come to this 
 before long he never doubted: it was the cold, 
 calculated brutality of the process which bothered 
 him. 
 
 Through the long journey in the luxurious 
 limousine he maintained a stolid silence, seeking 
 one excuse after another to justify his action. 
 Surely Saada, native by instinct and heredity, 
 could find more lasting happiness 1 with her own 
 people. She would be more content under the 
 placid skies of Africa than facing the stress and 
 turmoil of social existence in England. Besides, 
 the position she must have been called upon to 
 occupy, considering the wealth- and importance 
 of her husband, would never have been a pleasure 
 to a nature so simple and retiring. Always she 
 must have felt terribly out of place. 
 
 And yet to every argument there was an answer 
 which condemned the cause of his' reasoning. 
 Saada was his wife by the law of God as well as by 
 the law of man. He had vowed himself to a sacred 
 purpose which already he was anxious to evade.
 
 214 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Not that he had lost all affection for her, but 
 simply that she failed to fit in with the scheme of 
 things. He tried to find satisfaction in inwardly 
 extolling the wisdom of a mother whose practical 
 mind could rise over such minor considerations 
 as the imaginary welfare of others. She had lived 
 life more fully than he had ever done; therefore 
 she must know what was best. 
 
 He administered the conscience-lulling sedative 
 in large and frequent doses, and felt annoyed with 
 its failure to produce the desired effect. The end 
 of the silent argument was always the same : Saada 
 was his wife, and his duty was to stand by her. 
 
 It needed more than the pow r er of wealth to sway 
 him . . . the effect of something more concrete. 
 He found it in his first glimpse of the house after 
 a lapse of years. He had visited there often enough 
 as a boy, but the impression was rather one of a 
 grand and stately mansion that awed him with its 
 size and splendour. 
 
 Now, as the car purred along the winding drive, 
 through spacious parkland dotted with dwarf oaks 
 and aged elms, and showed a glimpse of the long 
 red castellated front with the middle tower stand- 
 ing clear above the surrounding country, he began 
 to experience something of the pride of possession. 
 Presently the west side emerged, perfect in its 
 original grandeur, retaining the central great hall 
 and the end double-storey wings. 
 
 Landringham had always been a large house, 
 from the time of its erection in the fourteenth
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 215 
 
 century, and future generations had added to its 
 greatness. 
 
 His eyes kindled as they took in the steep tiled 
 gables of the oldest portion, the exquisite timber- 
 work bleached to its natural colour of silver grey 
 by long exposure to sun, wind, and rain. The high 
 gates of delicate hammered ironwork which en- 
 closed the large forecourt laid out with gardens 
 of formal design were open; he passed through, 
 his face glowing with approval. Above the moat, 
 crossed by a balustraded bridge of carved Tudor 
 stonework, high windows filled with armourial 
 stained glass looked out upon broad stretches of 
 velvet-green turf. 
 
 The great house, sleeping through the sunlight 
 of the winter's afternoon, suggested a dignified re- 
 pose which in his present state he found restful. 
 As the wide door opened he stepped into the central 
 hall, panelled and rafted and mysterious in the 
 higher reaches, with dim changing shadows. A 
 wide staircase with carved oak balustrading ran a 
 zig-zag course from landing to landing, and in 
 every recess stood a motionless figure in armour. 
 Painted faces from the wall men in ruffles and 
 slashed doublets, buff coats, Oudenarde wigs and 
 bucket boots, bare-throated beautiful women in the 
 dresses of Charles the Second's day seemed to 
 watch him as he passed. He moved from one room 
 to another, from a paradise of Eastern art to the 
 grave simplicity of Elizabethan living-rooms and 
 at the end of two hours his inspection of his vast
 
 216 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 inheritance was far from finished. Escorted by 
 a silent-footed man-servant, he passed down into 
 the vaults and strong rooms; at a click, lights 
 leapt up and grilled doors were opened, to expose 
 to sight the gold and silver treasures of centuries. 
 
 "The plate has all been examined and checked, 
 sir, by the expert Mr. Strangeways brought down," 
 the servant said, adding after a discreet cough, 
 "And he said, sir, that at Christie's it would fetch 
 a hundred thousand pounds." 
 
 Lance strove to preserve an outward composure, 
 though his pulses beat rapidly as he touched cases 
 of apostle spoons, Commonwealth cups, and deli- 
 cate baskets of pierced and filigree work. To the 
 man who had struggled and contrived on a few 
 hundreds a year this was like a dream fancy from 
 the Arabian Nights. 
 
 He went to the library alone and stared about 
 him at the hand-tooled bindings, the statuary 
 and pictures in the dark recesses, the moulded ceil- 
 ing which had been the life-work of a skilful Jaco- 
 bean craftsman. The vast state-rooms with their 
 tapestried walls and gilt furniture awed him; he 
 was glad to move into the more livable quarters of 
 the home. 
 
 In a small turret-room tea had been set ; he found 
 his mother breathless with delight and wonder. 
 
 "I had no idea it was so full of treasures," she 
 enthused. "While your uncle lay dying there was 
 little chance to inspect anything. One never 
 knows what servants will say. I think you might
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 217 
 
 dismiss this lot and leave me to engage fresh ones. 
 The Chinese bedrooms are a dream. What do you 
 think of it all?" 
 
 Inwardly his excitement matched hers. 
 
 "I am just dazed. It doesn't seem real. I keep 
 comparing everything with the little villa at El 
 Bouira. I wonder what Saada would think of all 
 this." 
 
 Helen Railsford frowned. 
 
 "For goodness' sake get her out of your mind! 
 We discussed and settled that point long ago: 
 Saada can have no possible part in this. The serv- 
 ants would turn up their noses in disgust and leave ; 
 everyone would cold-shoulder you. You must nil 
 the place with your friends: arrange about the 
 shooting have Mr. Kirby up to see how the covers 
 are. I saw quite a number of birds as we came 
 along." 
 
 Lance came out of dark abstraction. 
 
 "I believe you are right," he said, turning to the 
 window and staring out over the park bathed in the 
 rose-red glow of the western sun, with a gauze-like 
 curtain of mist rising in the valley. "We must en- 
 joy our inheritance alone. I'd no idea it was so 
 magnificent. Saada would feel horribly out of 
 place here. I shall write as soon as we settle 
 down. . . ." 
 
 Helen Railsford eyed him coldly over the gilt 
 rim of her tea-cup. 
 
 "My dear boy, whatever is the good of putting off 
 the inevitable? It will be weeks before you can
 
 218 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 settle in, and at any moment she may take it into 
 her head to join you. How long do you imagine 
 you can keep your good fortune to yourself? As 
 soon as your uncle's will is proved the papers will 
 publish the amount of it and the most interesting 
 points. Some obliging friend will send out to 
 North Africa . . . and then the fat will be in the 
 fire." 
 
 "I don't believe for a moment Saada would come," 
 he said. "She's dreadfully proud, and as soon as 
 she finds out I deceived her about you, I mean 
 she'll have no more to do with me." 
 
 "At least you'll be saving money, my dear. 
 Have you decided anything . . . about the allow- 
 ance? I really think twelve hundred a year much 
 too high." 
 
 Lance came to the table again and passed his cup 
 a second time. 
 
 "I was turning that over on the way down. As I 
 said yesterday, I don't think she would accept any- 
 thing. And yet I can't leave her unprovided for. 
 Her father has nothing. He gave pretty well all 
 he had to our home. I think the best plan would 
 be to write to Saada and say the marriage was a 
 mistake: that I've discovered since I came away I 
 don't really care for her, and this being the case, we 
 are better apart. Thanks. No sugar this time. 
 And then about the allowance " 
 
 "It will take a great deal to keep up a place 
 like this. Besides, you are admitting a liabil- 
 ity . . ."
 
 THE SALE OF A WOMAN'S HEART 219 
 
 "Which exists, whether I admit it or not," he 
 replied. "No, with regard to that, I shall be sav- 
 ing a great deal of trouble and possibly Saada a 
 good deal of pain if I leave Strangeways to deal 
 direct with the sheikh. The money can be paid 
 to him . . . enough to keep them both in comfort 
 . . . and Saada need know nothing about it." 
 
 "With this condition, my dear that no attempt 
 is made to molest you, or make your generosity the 
 basis of bargaining. It should be an unconditional 
 acceptance of a very generous gift. Yes, I believe 
 you are right. Write to Saada tonight in the 
 manner you suggest . . . and leave the business 
 entirely to the lawyers." 
 
 Lance left his mother, and, lighting a cigar, 
 strolled away to the banqueting-hall. Here the 
 servants were already busy, setting covers on the 
 long refectory tables, and the high silver candel- 
 abra were being brought in. He wanted to be 
 alone, and sought once more the quiet of the li- 
 brary. He lit a couple of candles, for the short 
 winter day was fast drawing in, and seating him- 
 self before his uncle's desk, he wrote to Saada in 
 the spirit of the conversation with his mother. 
 
 The clock in the turret over the stables was strik- 
 ing six as he went down the shallow stairs to put 
 the letter into the box. The irrevocable step was 
 taken, he felt more at ease than he had done 
 through many troubled days.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 
 
 SAADA, after the first shock of her husband's 
 faithlessness, preserved an outward calm. 
 Neither to her father nor to her friends did 
 she say anything. It was, for the time at any rate, 
 a secret locked in her own heart. As to the ulti- 
 mate result of Lance's duplicity she was in doubt: 
 whether, in the course of time and more sober rea- 
 soning, he would endeavour to clear away the bar- 
 rier which his conduct had raised. 
 
 For a long time, after the guests had gone, the 
 sheikh had insisted on her seeking the rest and 
 quiet of her room. She stood by the open window 
 and stared unseeingly down the blanched, winding 
 road which her husband had taken. The desert 
 wind blew refreshingly on her palid face and 
 caught the loose tresses of her hair ; the fragrance 
 of the flowers in the garden filled the air with a 
 drowsy perfume. She, who had always loved 
 Africa until now, wanted to go away . . . far be- 
 yond the towns into the silent wastes of sand, and 
 there fight out the bitter discord in her soul. 
 
 The hour had brought understanding. She had 
 never known Lance really. The sudden stroke of 
 
 fortune had revealed the character hitherto hidden 
 
 220
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 221 
 
 from her. For the love of money and position he 
 had thrown her aside ... as something of little 
 consequence and less worth. 
 
 And this was her wedding-day ! On the altar of 
 surrender her hopes lay crushed and dead. She 
 could not tell her father. There was no reason 
 why his life should be still further darkened by 
 the knowledge of her sorrow. In time the man 
 she had trusted and tried to love would write 
 . . . and perhaps express regret for his action. 
 But there could be no going back: no union of a 
 dead with a living heart. She resolved all this 
 and more in the first few hours following his de- 
 parture, and resolved that, no matter what hap- 
 pened, she could never live in the house which was 
 to have been her home. 
 
 She had a little money left . . . enough to keep 
 both her and the sheikh at the hotel until she was 
 in a frame of mind to decide what best could be 
 done for the future. 
 
 She was quite sure that, in a little while, she 
 would hear from Lance . . . either to say he 
 would not be returning to Africa or to suggest the 
 reunion which she could never agree to. 
 
 The greatest difficulty that faced Saada was to 
 advance a sensible reason why she should not go 
 to the villa. The sheikh himself raised the point 
 the following morning. 
 
 "You will be glad to get into your home, child 
 to have around you your own pretty things.'"
 
 222 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 She could have laughed at the bitter irony of 
 it all. To walk the silent rooms which should 
 have reechoed to their happy laughter; to touch 
 the presents he had given her ... to be reminded 
 in a score of ways of the happiness that had passed 
 her by. 
 
 She shook her head, and a sad smile flitted across 
 her face. 
 
 "I shall leave everything just as it is until he 
 returns," she answered quietly. "It is his home. 
 We will go to it together." 
 
 Yet she knew in her heart this could not be: 
 that, though she forgave him, she could never feel 
 towards him as a wife towards a husband. He had 
 sacrificed her on the altar of greed and ambition, 
 and only the cold ashes of a romance that was 
 dead, and beyond recall, remained. 
 
 The sheikh, though sorely puzzled, surrendered 
 submissively. To see Saada happ.y in her own 
 choice had always been his first care. To bow to 
 the desire of loved ones . . . had not the Koran 
 written the enjoinder in letters of gold upon the 
 walls of his house? 
 
 One morning, some five or six days after her 
 husband's departure, Saada was returning from a 
 solitary walk to the oasis of El Schri near by. She 
 loved to be there alone to throw herself down on a 
 mossy bank in the shade of tall, graceful palms, 
 and listen to the music of the running stream that 
 wound its silvery course through the island of 
 luscious green until it was lost in the thirsty sand.
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 223 
 
 She had reached the end of the narrow street 
 faced by the square tower of the mosque of Beni 
 Djama, where the white flag hung lazily in the heat 
 of high noon and the mueddin in a shrill voice 
 called the midday prayer, when behind her she 
 heard a voice. 
 
 "Mrs. Railsford!" 
 
 She turned, and a pleased smile suffused her 
 brown cheeks at sight of the tall form of John 
 Williams. He had altered since the Batna days: 
 a well-made suit fitted his splendid figure ; from the 
 crown of his massive head to the tips of his white 
 boots he looked nicely groomed and well cared for. 
 
 "This is a great surprise!" she said, extending 
 her small hand, which he took in a big hearty grip. 
 "I heard you were expected in El Bouira, hut had 
 no idea when you would be coming." 
 
 "How did you know that?" he asked, eyeing her 
 curiously. 
 
 Almost without thinking she blurted out, 
 
 "Oh, from Mr. Snitch, of course. He said the 
 other day he had written to you at Batna." 
 
 A grateful laugh escaped Williams, and he 
 wrung her hand more heartily still. 
 
 "I can see now. The mystery no longer puzzles 
 me. It is to you I owe my good luck. Mr. Snitch 
 was very close. He wouldn't say who had recom- 
 mended me. And now I know ... it was you." 
 
 She blushed guiltily. 
 
 "I hope . . . you didn't mind?" 
 
 "Mind!" His manner was touched with a cer-
 
 224 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 tain graveness. "I owe all I have in life to you. 
 You lifted me out of the mire in Tunis; because 
 of your friendship I resolved to be a man ... to 
 fight once again and win back my self-esteem. 
 And now you have put in my way a fresh chance. 
 I wonder . . . why you have done all this for me." 
 
 "I couldn't tell you. I simply don't know . . . 
 unless " 
 
 "Unless what?" he questioned. 
 
 Saada regarded him with a look of grave in- 
 quiry. 
 
 "I don't know unless it was the desire which 
 every woman has to see a man get back to what he 
 once was. You know how I have always felt ajbout 
 you . . . ever since that dreadful night in Con- 
 stantine." 
 
 He laughed softly, though his grey eyes dark- 
 ened. 
 
 "You have not forgotten, then?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I shall never forget. I should not be here now 
 but for you. But tell me, Mr. Williams, why did 
 you leave behind for me and my husband" she 
 had to steady herself to get out the words "that 
 terrible letter? It wasn't true, you know; I knew 
 it wasn't true the moment I saw you a week later 
 in Batna. You hadn't slipped back : I don't believe 
 you have touched the drug since you gave your 
 word." 
 
 "Is your faith in me so great?"
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 225 
 
 She looked down to hide something in her deep 
 violet eyes. 
 
 "It has never wavered," she said simply. 
 "There was a look on your face something in your 
 voice, when you made the promise. I felt that 
 all the fiends from the lower world could never 
 drag you down again." 
 
 "It's awfully encouraging to hear you say that," 
 he admitted. "They had a very good try. For days 
 and nights I was like a mad thing, tossed this way 
 and that between the desire to win out and the 
 craving for the drug. But, somehow, the long 
 weary battles always ended the same way: I just 
 told myself to keep on thinking of you ; to remem- 
 ber your face as I had last seen it ... and I used 
 to repeat your parting words. You don't know 
 how much they meant to me." 
 
 "I think I do," she said, staring into the blind- 
 ing sunshine. "They just helped you when you 
 were weary. I can see you have suffered: I can 
 also see . . . you have conquered." 
 
 He faced her a magnificently proportioned 
 figure, in the blaze of the hot sunlight . . . his 
 strong face marred but resolute, his immensely 
 broad shoulders thrown back with a suggestion of 
 pride. 
 
 "Do I still show the dreadful tell-tale marks?" 
 His tone was edged with yearning. 
 
 Saada's lips trembled at the childlike appeal 
 coming straight from the heart of this strong man.
 
 226 A DAUGHTEE OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Some of the signs will always be there ... to 
 remind you of what you once were; to encourage 
 you to remain as you are/' she said gently. "And 
 yet," regarding him critically, "you are so very 
 different. Your eyes are brighter, your mouth is 
 firmer ... I was almost going to say more 
 grim . . . and you walk as though you had flung a 
 heavy burden from your shoulders. Still, in some 
 curious way you are the same." 
 
 His hand went to his head, and as the lean brown 
 fingers ran through the thick iron-grey hair, he 
 asked, 
 
 "You don't think I've improved, then?" 
 
 She nodded briskly. 
 
 "Of course I do. You were a pitiful object when 
 you came over that wall, full into the midst of 
 those terrible Arabs ... a mere bundle of rags 
 and as thin as a knife. Now you've filled out 
 splendidly and you're looking ever so strong." 
 
 He laughed, and stretched his great arms to the 
 blue of the sky. 
 
 "I'm as strong as a lion. You can't realize what 
 it feels like to be free. For years I was a slave, 
 shackled and bound. Yet the touch of a woman's 
 hand, the sound of a woman's voice, freed me. 
 I wonder if you realize how much you've done?" 
 
 "I realize," answered Saada, "that life must be 
 quite different." 
 
 "It is," he said briskly. "From sunrise to sun- 
 set I thank God for the power to live, to enjoy 
 every hour and minute of the day. I revel in the
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 227 
 
 sun, in the flowers, in the strength which He has" 
 given me ; but most of all, I thank Him for sending 
 you." 
 
 His voice was hushed to a reverent whisper; he 
 looked aw T ay, beyond the slight, graceful figure 
 of the girl standing in the sunlight, to the sweep 
 of mystic blue where sky and desert met. 
 
 "I worked like a slave in Batna but I wasn't a 
 slave really," he went on. "Those were the days 
 during which I was slipping free from my mana- 
 cles. I began to feel I had earned the right to live. 
 There's nothing like real hard work to teach a fel- 
 low self-respect." 
 
 He fell in beside her again, and she said, 
 
 "You haven't yet told me . . . why you wrote 
 that letter. Did you want me to be disappointed: 
 in you?" 
 
 "Not exactly." He broke off. "Oh, it's rather 
 difficult to explain. I thought you and your hus- 
 band would come to see me. It isn't easy to face 
 one's fellows when one has been so long down." 
 
 "You didn't mind facing me?" 
 
 "You you are different. I seem to have got to 
 know you . . . ever so well, though we were only 
 a few hours together. I didn't even know Mr. 
 Kailsford. I I had kept away from white men 
 for years." 
 
 "So you wanted me to think you had fallen 
 back?" she said, mildly reproving. 
 
 He bit his underlip. Then he jerked out, 
 
 "Somehow I thought it better never to see you
 
 228 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 again. I didn't dream our paths would cross in 
 Batna. You didn't speak to me . . ." 
 
 "I hadn't a chance. You were on one side of the 
 square, I on the other. A little group of children 
 clustered round you." 
 
 "Ah, those children ! You can't know how much 
 they helped me." She caught the slight quavering 
 in the deep voice. "They used to slip their tiny 
 little hands into mine and look up at me with those 
 brown expressive eyes full of trust and innocence 
 . . . and I used to remember . . . that once ... I 
 too was a child as innocent of wrong as they. It 
 was just a bit more fire added to the blaze you 
 started, and it helped to burn up a lot of the bad 
 in me." 
 
 "I'm ever so glad," she said buoyantly. "It is 
 splendid to see you like this. I suppose you've 
 come to El Bouira to work for Mr. Snitch?" 
 
 "That's it. One lift-up seems to bring about 
 another. I've been with him all the morning at 
 the club-house, discussing what he wants me to 
 do. I am truly grateful to you for your part in 
 this new stroke of good fortune." 
 
 "It is nothing really," she assured him. "Mr. 
 Snitch wanted some one, and immediately I thought 
 of you. I didn't like the idea of your spending 
 your days as an ill-paid Batna camel-driver." 
 
 He glanced at her inquiringly. 
 
 "How did you know I was ill-paid?" 
 
 Saada tried to brazen the matter out, but under 
 the quiet, searching glance her explanation failed.
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 229 
 
 "I I sent Yakoub to inquire," she admitted'. 
 "I told him to find out what you were doing how 
 you were living and whether you were in need 
 of anything." 
 
 "Why?" His manner was insistent. 
 
 "Because you were my friend, and also, I admit 
 ... I felt curious. You said something in that 
 letter which I felt wasn't true. I wanted to satisfy 
 myself. And I did, too. I discovered you hadn't 
 slipped back . . . and when the chance to work 
 for Mr. Snitch came, I took the responsibility of 
 recommending you. Are you sorry?" 
 
 "Sorry! Of course I'm not sorry. I'm the 
 happiest man in the world. It does help one 
 tremendously, you know, to feel there are people 
 willing to hold out a hand to one who has been 
 right down. I believe the worst punishment of 
 all is the way in which men and women ignore 
 the backsliders . . . and the conviction grows 
 that neither God nor man cares what becomes of 
 them. That is how I felt until you came." 
 
 She nodded understandingly, and they swung 
 briskly up the slow rise together. 
 
 "You are going to forget all about the dreadful 
 past, Mr. Williams," she said, cloaking her own 
 misery beneath the enthusiasm she was experi- 
 encing over his success. "The future is waiting 
 with wide-open arms. You will go forward from 
 one triumph to another until the lost position is 
 quite regained. Isn't that true?" 
 
 "That is what I shall strive for, Mrs. Kailsford.
 
 230 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 But sometimes I feel just a little afraid. I realize 
 ... I have been able to stand firm because of the 
 stimulus you gave me. But supposing, in time, 
 the effect should wear off, and the old temptations 
 return? You will probably pass out of my life 
 as suddenly as you came into it; then I shall feel 
 so very much alone." 
 
 Saada eyed him with manifest disapproval. 
 
 "You shouldn't put any reliance on me. Strength 
 to fight and endure must come from within. Fate 
 brought us together that day; I did less for you 
 than you did for me. By chance, or rather the 
 slenderest of consequences, we meet again, here in 
 El Bouira : you will go your way and I mine. But 
 because of that, you mustn't lose the finer edge 
 of courage." 
 
 His chin drooped to his chest; he looked down, 
 ashamed and disconsolate, yet so penitent that her 
 heart was touched. 
 
 "I have, still to make you understand all that 
 your friendship meant to me," Williams went on 
 earnestly. "You found me a vile, unclean thing, 
 the scorn and derision of my own as well as your 
 people. You stretched out the hand of a woman, 
 pure and innocent, but so strong that it led me to 
 find my own soul. I have gone on ... God knows 
 how desperate and bitter the fight has been. So 
 long as you were in North Africa I felt you were 
 not so far away : I could think of you, in the dark 
 hours, as being very, very near. But the time will 
 come when you will go back to England with your
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 231 
 
 husband which reminds me, I've talked so much 
 about myself I haven't even congratulated you on 
 your marriage. Please forgive my thoughtless- 
 ness." 
 
 "You sent a telegram of good wishes. We were 
 ever so pleased to get it. How did you get to 
 hear about the wedding?" 
 
 For a moment Williams looked confused. Then 
 he admitted, 
 
 "I'm afraid I must confess to being very inquisi- 
 tive. Traders pass constantly between Batna and 
 El Bouira. They bring news. I wanted to hear 
 about you . . . what you were doing, and all the 
 rest. I felt most ashamed at not being able -to send 
 you a wedding-gift." 
 
 "Of course we should have felt angry if you had 
 spent any of your hard-earned money." 
 
 "I had none," he admitted frankly. "By the 
 time I had paid -for my lodgings and sufficient 
 food to keep body and soul together, I didn't possess 
 a penny in the world. Your good friend, Mr. 
 Snitch, sent the money to buy these clothes. 
 Strange, isn't it, how the wheel goes round? . . . 
 a big-hearted son of the people clothing a fellow 
 who once prided himself on being a gentleman. 
 We have to learn the lesson sooner or later that all 
 are men *>ne just as good as another. I know, 
 ten years ago, in my ignorance, I should have looked 
 down on a man like Snitch. Today I'm proud to 
 be able to look up to him. However, enough of 
 myself. Shall I find Mr. Eailsford in the town?
 
 232 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 I want to thank him for all he tried to do for me 
 in Constantine." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said quietly, "but I'm afraid 
 you won't be able to see him. He went back to 
 England last week." 
 
 Williams stared. 
 
 "What! Gone away . . . without you?" 
 
 "Yes. His mother was taken ill. Naturally, 
 his duty was to go to her." 
 
 "Of course. But I shouldn't have thought he 
 would leave you. Which day did he leave?" 
 
 "On our wedding-day an hour after we were 
 married." 
 
 "Lord ! that must have wanted some pluck. I'm 
 afraid I could have never have done it. If you were 
 my wife I should never have been content to let you 
 out of my sight . . . which only shows how selfish 
 some men can be where a woman is concerned." 
 
 "I certainly think his duty was to consider his 
 mother," she said bravely. "A wife has so much 
 of life before her. His mother's may be almost 
 done." 
 
 "Yes, there's something in that," he admitted 
 thoughtfully. "All the same, I can't quite under- 
 stand. I should have wanted to take you to be 
 with me through the anxious time. I suppose you 
 are right. And yet he must kn.ow how lonely you 
 will be." 
 
 "I still have my father. I can never be lonely 
 as long as we are together." 
 
 Williams was puzzled. It seemed such a strange
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 233 
 
 proceeding for a man to go off on his wedding-day 
 leaving his young and beautiful wife alone, when he 
 might easily have taken her with him. 
 
 "Of course you've no notion how long he will he 
 gone?" 
 
 "None at all. The journey takes ten days at 
 least . . . and then it may be some time before 
 Mrs. Eailsford recovers. Till then my father and I 
 will remain at the Transatlantique Hotel. It is 
 very comfortable, and everything possible is done 
 to make our stay enjoyable. You'll come to see 
 us?" 
 
 He looked pleased. 
 
 "I should love to. As a matter of fact, Mr. 
 Snitch was talking about fixing me up there. 
 He won't hear of going to any hotel but a Trans- 
 atlantique . . . says they have the finest chain of 
 hotels in North Africa, especially at Bone and 
 Biskra; so I expect to be there with him until we 
 start off next week for Beni El Ourit." 
 
 The white building, of fairy-like beauty under 
 its mantling of purple bougainvillea and pink 
 cluster-roses, stood out sharp and clear, as though 
 carved in purest ivory, at the end of the road. 
 
 Saada was searching the shady gardens for a 
 glimpse of her father. 
 
 "I feel sure you wili find the work congenial," 
 she said reflectively. 
 
 The man smiled. 
 
 "You couldn't have found anything to suit me 
 better. I love Greek and Roman art . . . and
 
 234 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 gossip has it that Mr. Snitch has tumbled cm a 
 perfect storehouse of wonderful things bronzes, 
 rare statuary, choice marble, fountains, doorways, 
 and carved pillars looted from Carthage centuries 
 ago. I mean to drag them all into the light of day, 
 and salve the best for him. You can't imagine 
 what a labour of love the work will be." 
 
 The deep note of the luncheon-hour gong boomed 
 across the stillness. Saada quickened step. 
 
 "If Mr. Snitch dosen't claim you, I want you to 
 lunch with us," she said briskly; then paused to 
 scan the gardens, drowsy in the heat of the coming 
 afternoon. "My father generally takes a stroll at 
 this hour. I thought you might like to meet him 
 before we go in. Ah, there he is at the end of the 
 little citron grove, talking to Yakoub." 
 
 Williams shaded his eyes and took in the bent 
 figure of the sheikh in his red turban and long 
 white ghandourah. 
 
 "I had quite forgotten for the moment that you 
 are Arab," he said. "I always think of you as a 
 typically English girl. Strange, isn't it? I won- 
 der why." 
 
 Saada shook her head. 
 
 "I'm sure I couldn't tell you. Perhaps because 
 I've stayed so long in England. However, come 
 along, and let me introduce you." 
 
 Saada could hardly have explained why she took 
 such pains to keep the secret of her birth from 
 this big, open-hearted Englishman, unless it was 
 that deep down in her heart lurked the conviction
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 235 
 
 that Mrs. Railsford's callous treatment of her was 
 solely dictated by the supposed fact of her Arab 
 birth. This much she read behind every word in 
 the fatal telegram which had drawn her husband 
 from his sworn allegiance. 
 
 The remembrance swept a surge of anger into 
 her cheeks. Since then she had resolved that those 
 who professed friendship should stand by her for 
 herself alon.e. It was the only way to tell the dross 
 from the gold. She went forward. 
 
 "Father, dear, I wish to present to you Mr. 
 Williams, a very great friend of mine. You re- 
 member, don't you . . . my telling you how he 
 came to my aid in Constantine?" 
 
 The old man bowed. 
 
 "I am honoured to meet you', Mr. Williams," he 
 said, kissing his fingers as the other released them 
 after a hearty grip. "Your name is often on 
 Saada's lips. In our hearts it will always be en- 
 shrined. An Arab, you know, sir, never forgets a 
 service rendered either to himself or to his house." 
 
 Williams blushed like an over-conscious school- 
 boy. 
 
 "It was nothing, I assure you-. She got off the 
 track into the dangerous quarter of the town. I 
 merely happened to know the best way out." 
 
 "I have asked Mr. Williams to lunch with us, if 
 Mr. Snitch does not claim him," Saada interposed. 
 
 The sheikh bowed. 
 
 "Indeed, we are doubly honoured in welcoming 
 to our table a friend of the good Mr. Snitch. Of
 
 236 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 all the English people we have ever met, he is the 
 most delightful." 
 
 Saada took the sheikh's arm. 
 
 "Father, Mr. Williams is going to work for Mr. 
 Snitch. He has appointed him to cross the desert 
 to the palace he has bought, and to superintend the 
 excavations at the buried Roman city beyond the 
 oasis of Kheiroun. Don't you think he will have a 
 most interesting experience?" 
 
 They walked up the sanded path together. 
 
 "I am sure of it," Williams interjected. "And 
 I owe my good fortune entirely to your daughter, 
 sheikh." 
 
 The sheikh glanced across at Saada. He could 
 not understand why, again and again, since the 
 night when he revealed the secret of her birth, she 
 had refused to allow a living soul to share it. As 
 she made no sign, he took the cue, and said simply, 
 
 "Neither I nor my daughter will ever forget the 
 service you have rendered us. Ah, here comes a 
 messenger !" 
 
 Diminutive Abdul, the Nubian boy, hurried for- 
 ward and salaamed before the tall Englishman. 
 
 "Mos' noble highbrow," he said in a high-pitched, 
 sing-song voice with a pronounced American accent 
 only recently acquired from a party of delightful 
 New Yorkers who had taken a deep pleasure in 
 encouraging it. "The great rich Englishman 
 General Vis-count Lor' Snitch, him leave messages 
 to say if Mistah Willyum come, I guess he gottum 
 kick his 'eels in dis yah place till three o'clock.
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 237 
 
 Genelmans, Abdul put it over on you orl correck." 
 
 Williams laughed and tossed the lad a coin. 
 
 "Thank you. And that means," turning to 
 Saada, very much amused by the little fellow's 
 quaintness, "I am free to lunch with you." 
 
 The sheikh thought him very charming so very 
 unlike, so much more friendly and approachable 
 than Saada's husband. He recalled a score of 
 occasions when Railsford had made him conscious 
 of the barrier that the white men always raise be- 
 tween themselves and the people of his race. Will- 
 iams, apparently, had no such feelings; he hon- 
 oured his host by insisting that the conversation be 
 carried on entirely in Arabic. For Saada the hour 
 passed happily . . . more happily than she had 
 known since coming to El Bouira. After Lance's 
 departure scarcely a soul, expect Theodore Snitch 
 and his daughter, had spoken either to herself or to 
 the sheikh. 
 
 She treasured the memory of that little gathering 
 long after Williams had gone. The following 
 morning he left with his employer and Hetty 
 Snitch-, the whole party mounted on camels. For 
 a fortnight nothing was heard of them. Then one 
 Saturday morning, while she was arranging fresh 
 flowers in her bedroom, word came up that a 
 gentleman was waiting in the vestibule to see her. 
 She went down and saw John Williams . . . not 
 the neatly-dressed man who had stopped her in the 
 street of El Bouira, but a huge, loose-limbed fellow 
 in riding breeches, a much-soiled shirt open at the
 
 238 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 throat, and uncovered arms that rippled where the 
 sunlight played on sinew and muscle. 
 
 He looked very splendid, if very untidy, as he 
 stood in the open doorway, a wide-brimmed hat 
 swinging in his right hand. For the first time 
 Saada was conscious of the immense strength in 
 his great gaunt frame. 
 
 "I'm not at all presentable, Mrs. Railsford," he 
 said, striding briskly towards her. "You must 
 really forgive my appearance, but I rode straight 
 from my work through the night to bring a note 
 of invitation from Theodore Snitch. He wants 
 you to join him and Miss Hetty to see the wonder- 
 ful excavations we have made." 
 
 Saada's face lit up. 
 
 "I should just love to come. How have you 
 been getting on?" 
 
 He avoided the personal note in her inquiry. 
 
 "Oh, magnificently! We made some amazing 
 discoveries. Tomorrow early we are opening a 
 chamber which has been closed for more than two 
 thousand years. We can just see into it ... 
 crammed with Greek art treasures brought from 
 Athens in a Roman ship . . . ornaments, bronzes, 
 tazzas, marble figures, urns and vases. Nothing 
 would satisfy the boss but that I fetched you." 
 
 "I had better see my father first," she said. "I 
 should like him to come too, but I'm afraid at his 
 time of life the journey would be rather too much. 
 What do you think?' 
 
 "I'm sure it would. Travelling over leagues of
 
 THE MAN WHO WON 239 
 
 sand, even on a good horse, is rather exhausting. 
 Mr. Snitch commissioned me to get the best mare in 
 El Bouira for you. How soon could you be 
 ready?" 
 
 "Almost at once," she replied. "Father is up- 
 stairs. He'll be only too pleased for me to go. 
 The post is just being brought up. I shall wait to 
 see if there are any letters." 
 
 Williams backed to the door. 
 
 "Very well. I'll be back in half an hour, with 
 the mare bridled and saddled. We can make Beni 
 El Ourit in ten hours, now that the old trackway 
 has been cleared." 
 
 He ran lightly down the steps and swung out 
 into the sunshine a fine figure in his rough 
 clothes. Saada's glance followed him till the trees 
 hid him; then she turned as Abdul shuffled into 
 the vestibule, calling at the top of his shrill voice, 
 
 "Numbah 271 Railsford! Numbah 271. Bech- 
 your-life, lady, that's for yew." 
 
 He held out an envelope bearing Lance's familial* 
 handwriting. A deadly coldness crept over her as 
 she sought the silence of her room. The covering 
 dropped to the floor ; she sank down in the nearest 
 chair and tried to steel herself to read in sequence 
 each line of the letter. But her eyes wandered 
 here and there, picking up only detached sentences 
 that crushed the last shred of hope in her heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SEPARATION 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 I feel that I alone am to blame, ' ' Lance had written. 
 Time and again you did your utmost to stay me on a 
 course which I should have known could only end in 
 disaster. But I was blind. I wrongly imagined that 
 love such love as I deceived myself into thinking I 
 had for you would be strong enough to sweep all bar- 
 riers of creed and colour away." 
 
 THE light of a deep scorn blazed in Saada's 
 eyes as she read the lying reference to her 
 religious belief. Always Lance had 
 known she was Christian, and that of her own 
 desire she had embraced the faith of the Cross. 
 She turned the closely-written page. 
 
 "Of course, the inevitable reaction came as soon as I 
 was free of Africa. I shook off the shackles which held 
 me enchained a prisoner remote from my own fellows. 
 You did not dream I wish to God I had possessed the 
 courage to tell you all that I suffered at the hands of 
 my own people the last few weeks before our marriage. 
 Both you and I were objects of pity and derision. I 
 could not stand that here in England . . . either to see 
 you spurned and set aside as of no account, or I myself 
 to endure the compassion of those among whom I 
 moved. I have therefore decided, after mature consider- 
 
 240
 
 SEPARATION 241 
 
 ation, never to return to El Bouira. I must live my life, 
 even as you must live yours . . . alone: at least, not 
 quite alone, for you have your father, even as I have my 
 mother. 
 
 "I would ask you, out of the greatness of your heart, 
 and out of sympathy for me, to forgive the pain which a 
 letter such as this must bring. Do not think me un- 
 mindful of my responsibilities or of the misery which I 
 have caused. I shall carry them with me all my days. 
 It is better to write this, to be quite candid over a 
 matter which can be settled only in one way by ab- 
 solute and final separation. Try to think of me as 
 kindly as you can, and 
 
 "Believe me to remain, 
 
 "Always yours sorrowfully, 
 
 "LANCE." 
 
 So she came to the end ... to the end of her 
 married life of less than a day, and as she stood 
 there with the sunlight falling upon her in the full 
 flush of her perfect womanhood, tears welled up 
 from the depths of her eyes and coursed slowly 
 down her cheeks. Neither bitterness nor anger 
 moved her now : the fires of scorn had burnt out as 
 swiftly as they had risen . . . only the dull ache of 
 sorrow weighed heavily upon her soul. 
 
 For a little while she remained thus, the breeze 
 from the open window fluttering the letter in her 
 nerveless clasp. Out of the gloom her thoughts 
 groped back to the hour when Lance had stood 
 at her side, giving his promise before the altar of 
 God! The scene changed to the long gay room
 
 242 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 downstairs garlanded with flowers . . . she saw 
 again the words of his mother's message; they 
 burned in letters of fire across the darkness of her 
 mind. For the sake of money he had sacrificed her. 
 The knowledge was not new: only reawakened in 
 a more definite form. 
 
 She forced a weary, self-condemning smile at 
 her own weakness now that the big shock had come 
 . . . and she tried to think of John Williams, and 
 how, were the positions reversed, he would have 
 borne himself under it. He had gone down . . . 
 but manlike, having groped blindly through the 
 darkness, he had at last fought his way back to 
 light. She, too, must do the same. And always 
 she would have his sympathy and her father's love. 
 
 The point in her reflection brought her face to 
 face with a fresh difficulty how to break the news 
 to the sheikh. So far as he was aware, Lance was 
 in England merely to be near his sick mother. 
 His absence had not distressed him at all. In 
 time the Englishman would return to take up the 
 threads of life where misfortune had forced him to 
 lay them down. 
 
 Folding the letter into her dress, Saada dried her 
 tears and stole quietly into his room. She be- 
 trayed no emotion as she spoke of Theodore 
 Snitch's invitation. 
 
 "Of course go, child," said the old man, in a 
 gentle voice, as he removed his spectacles, and 
 setting down the copy of the Koran he was study- 
 ing, he took her brown, softly-rounded arm and
 
 SEPAKATION 243 
 
 stroked it affectionately. "The little change will 
 do you good; and I know that Mr. Williams will 
 take care of you." 
 
 "I am sure he will," she said gravely. "I shall 
 be quite all right with him." 
 
 The old man looked up suddenly. 
 
 "I heard Abdul calling a little while since. I 
 suppose the mail is in. Will you not be hearing 
 from your husband?" 
 
 Saada's hand went to her cheek. She longed 
 to share with some one the sorrow that lay so heav- 
 ily upon her. Yet still further to bring trouble to 
 the last days of this frail old man was a prospect 
 against which every fibre of her being revolted. 
 She knew she was but temporizing with a situation 
 that sooner or later must be faced. She wanted 
 time to realize more fully and to plan how best to 
 meet the changed conditions under which hence- 
 forward she would have to live. 
 
 "I hardly expect to get another letter from him 
 so soon," she replied, colouring. "You forget 
 ... I heard from him when he left Marseille. 
 Good-bye, dear," bending to kiss the lined face. 
 "Tell Yakoub to look after you while I am gone. 
 I shall be back some time on Monday." 
 
 "Some time on Monday," the sheikh repeated, 
 reaching for his gold-mounted cane, and following 
 slowly to the door. "The blessing of the Most 
 High be upon you, and may He bring you safely 
 home again." 
 
 He kissed her on each cheek and laid her hand
 
 244 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 upon his breast ; gave her his blessing and watched 
 with his faded eyes full of love till Ike turn in the 
 stairs hid her from sight. 
 
 Saada went back to the bedroom to prepare for 
 the long ride, strangely calm and self-possessed. 
 The first wave of horror had passed on, leaving be- 
 hind a numbness of body and mind. The climax 
 had not been altogether unexpected ; ever since the 
 discovery of her husband's duplicity she had 
 waited, half anticipating the worst. The reading 
 of the telegram, never intended for her sight, which 
 had at the time been such a dreadful blow now 
 proved to be her best ally. The forewarning en- 
 abled her to bear with composure a shock which 
 must have otherwise swept both hope and cour- 
 age away. 
 
 She dressed in a neat brown riding habit and 
 straight-brimmed hat, and went down. She looked 
 very lovely in the eyes of the man waiting on the 
 hotel verandah. Yet, watching her narrowly as 
 she crossed the vestibule, a short riding-crop 
 swinging in her left hand, he thought the last few 
 minutes had wrought a startling change. Black 
 shadows had gathered under the long lashes that 
 lay like softest silk upon the bloom of her cheek; 
 the sweet mouth, which but a few moments before 
 had shown a smile, was set in a thin, purposeful 
 line; the very carriage of the straight slim form 
 was different. 
 
 "You look very grim and businesslike, Mrs. 
 Railsford," he said laughingly, picking up her
 
 SEPARATION 245 
 
 small handcase. "You're not nervous, I hope, of 
 facing the perils of the desert in such restricted 
 numbers?" 
 
 Saada made a desperate effort to throw off the 
 heavy depression, and her lips twisted into a smile. 
 
 "Good gracious, no. I should feel safe any- 
 where with you. Besides, the natives hereabouts 
 are quite friendly. What a lovely horse! Is it 
 your choice?" 
 
 She passed behind him and patted the glossy 
 arched neck of the mare. 
 
 "Especially for you. She is pure-bred and re- 
 liable. Are we quite ready?" 
 
 "Quite," she answered, slipping one foot into the 
 stirrup and landing lightly in the saddle. "I feel 
 I want to get away from El Bouira . . . for a 
 time. The most perfect surroundings in the world 
 call for a change after a while, don't you think? 
 In the two months we have been here . . . apart 
 from visits to the villa, I have never once been out- 
 side the town. I can't tell you how glad I am to 
 get away. But," as the horses broke into a sharp 
 canter that carried them through the Bab Mokhara 
 gate towards the fringe of the desert, "why are you 
 so quiet?" 
 
 "I am wondering what has happened to you > 
 since I left you in the hotel half an hour ago." 
 
 "What has happened to me? Whatever do you 
 mean?" Saada asked with an assumed lightness 
 which failed altogether to deceive him. "I'm just 
 the same. Do I look any different?"
 
 246 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "You are different," Williams said bluntly. 
 "Under the sunburn your face is pale . . . and 
 . . . your lips are trembling. I believe, too, 
 you've been crying. What's the matter? Do tell 
 me please." 
 
 At last the brave effort she had made so long was 
 beginning to fail. A lump rose in her throat; 
 she swiftly averted her face and said in a shaky 
 whisper, 
 
 "Don't ask me now. I couldn't tell you. I shall 
 be all right in a little while. Please don't worry 
 about me." 
 
 "Something has upset you?" 
 
 She pursed her lips, but made no other sign ; only 
 the eyes that looked straight ahead over the im- 
 mense sweep of red-gold sand were moist with tears. 
 
 "I won't bother you now but later on you will 
 tell me," he said with sudden decision. "It's easier 
 for two to carry a trouble than to bear it alone. 
 I'm afraid I'm rather presumptuous, but I hate to 
 see you sad." 
 
 "I'm not sad really. Only . . . something . . . 
 upset me. I didn't much like leaving my father." 
 
 Williams looked surprised. 
 
 "He didn't mind your coming with me. Perhaps 
 I should have consulted him first; only I thought, 
 as you were now married " 
 
 "Of course it was quite right to ask me. My 
 father raised no objection, and has entire confidence 
 in you. He knows all about you." 
 
 "All!" he repeated slowly.
 
 SEPARATION 247 
 
 "Yes. I told him . . . the first night he came 
 to Constantine, and ever since he has wanted to 
 meet you. He takes the Arab view of the matter : 
 that henceforward my life consists of three parts 
 one of which I owe to Allah, the second to my 
 parents, and the third to you. Consequently he 
 isn't at all likely to disapprove of my accompany- 
 ing you on a day's journey across the desert." 
 
 Williams emitted a short laugh. 
 
 "Both you and your father take too serious a 
 view of a very slight service. Frankly, I'm not 
 entitled to a grain of gratitude from either. At 
 the time I wasn't even master of my own actions, 
 let alone of my will. Nothing but the primitive 
 instinct to go to the aid of a woman in distress, 
 prompted me. I was hopelessly intoxicated . . . 
 until something you said brought me to my senses." 
 
 Saada was glad the conversation was drifting 
 away from her. 
 
 "All that belongs to the past," she said. "You 
 know my feelings in the matter that always, 
 always, I shall feel I owe my life to you. But 
 more satisfying still is the knowledge that' you 
 have won out so splendidly." 
 
 "A man can do most things, backed by a woman's 
 sympathy," he answered earnestly. "Neither re- 
 ligion nor 'the power that in one lies' can do quite 
 so much." 
 
 "Sympathy is religion," she said quickly. "At 
 least it is the basis of all religions that count." 
 
 "In the sense that sympathy begets love. Yes,
 
 248 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 I agree. And yet men and women mustn't think! 
 of one another in terms of love unless they are 
 either related or engaged to be married. But love 
 is often there all the same ... if you allow that 
 holding your life is worthless unless every thought 
 and every action are prompted by the desire to 
 please others. That, to my mind, is love ; because 
 it knows neither conventions nor men-made laws, 
 but it is the natural expression of the human heart." 
 
 "We are drifting to dangerous ground," she 
 said, in a tone of light reproof. "We can care for 
 others without love entering into the matter at 
 all." 
 
 "But to care is to love," he insisted. "Oh, I don't 
 mind how you hedge it around with artificial quali- 
 fications . . . the gratitude which burns in the 
 heart towards one's fellows is love, the Divine 
 Gift of God. Doesn't it sound strange to hear 
 words like that . . . coming from me?" 
 
 "Why strange?" she asked quietly. 
 
 He placed his wide-brimmed hat on the high pom- 
 mel of the saddle and raised his glowing face to 
 the full glory of the sun. An expression of serene 
 peace had settled on him. Watching him, mag- 
 nificent of stature, sitting his horse like a centaur, 
 she marvelled that behind such imposing strength 
 was the simplicity of a child. 
 
 "Because of all human creatures I have been the 
 most vile," he said. "Look at me . . . made in 
 the image of God, yet self-defiled. I see myself
 
 SEPARATION 249 
 
 every day as you must have seen me that night in 
 the little garret of Constantine . . . and I thank 
 Him for the love that crept in your heart to help 
 raise me up. People who know me now think I 
 am a sad, lonely man. Well, yes, sometimes I am 
 sad, and at times I am tempted to feel lonely . . . 
 until I remember what I once was and what I now 
 have the chance to be. Then my heart just fills 
 . . . and I know that life, through sunshine or 
 storm, is only one long glad song. Lord! I can 
 laugh and sing the long day through . . . and re- 
 turn thanks every hour for the understanding you 
 gave me." 
 
 Saada made no answer, her mind too full for 
 words, and for a long while they rode in silence. 
 The world lay around them a marvel of blue and 
 gold . . . unflecked sky and gleaming sand painted 
 with tawny marigold and blue borage. Here and 
 there traces of long-neglected cultivation showed 
 amongst the ruin of half-buried walls and broken 
 columns; agaves reared their long green heads 
 above the parched ground, and occasional carobs, 
 dark as yews, threw welcome patches of length- 
 ening shade. 
 
 The subtle perfume that the girl exhaled mingled 
 with the scent of stray clusters of succamelle and 
 flowering vetches, purple, white, and blue, and 
 where the scarlet sainfoin was the thickest a lonely 
 cluster of palms thrust their straight trunks out of 
 the thirsty sand. Here they sat down, and while
 
 250 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Williams hobbled and tethered the horses, Saada 
 set out a snow-white cloth and spread upon it the 
 contents of the picnic basket. 
 
 "We must rest though the noon or the horses will 
 be knocked up," he explained, after giving each a 
 drink of water from one of the skins. "By start- 
 ing again at two we shall make Beni El Ourit at 
 six." 
 
 Saada's glance was wandering among the piles of 
 loose rubbish and heaped-up stone. 
 
 "At one time there must have been quite a large 
 town here," she remarked, passing over a handful of 
 sandwiches. 
 
 Williams stopped in the process of munching 
 steadily. 
 
 "We stand on the dust of numerous civiliza- 
 tions," he said, picking up a number of fragments. 
 "Look at these . . . dead bones of the past, yet 
 each voicing its own sad story. The Romans came 
 and built a grand city here . . . you can see the 
 line of the ancient viaduct which stretched for 
 thirty miles and fed the proud legionaries with 
 water from El Bouira. This is Moorish," holding 
 out a specimen of zig-zagged carved work, "and 
 below, on the face of the slender column, you see 
 the handiwork of your own people . . . the rose 
 and crescent of the sons of Islam." 
 
 A faint, almost imperceptible sigh drifted from 
 her slightly-parted lips as she bent her head over 
 the exquisite example of Moorish and Arabic work- 
 manship. That reference to her Arab blood
 
 SEPARATION 251 
 
 brought back with startling reality the recollections 
 of the letter that lay against her heart. 
 
 Saada was conscious of William's clear grey eyes 
 watching her with curious intent; she tilted the 
 brim of her hat and said in a low voice, 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to smoke?" 
 
 He set down the water-can and heaped up a pile 
 of sand for her to rest against. Then in a grave, 
 sympathetic tone he said, 
 
 "Now I want you to tell me what is troubling! 
 you. All the morning I've been conscious of it. 
 Isn't there any way in which I can help you?" 
 
 A terrible loneliness settled on the girl. For 
 weeks she had fought the long battle in the silence 
 of her own thoughts. 
 
 "Thank you ever so much. I know you mean to 
 be kind, but neither you nor any one else can help 
 me. We Arabs, you know, have a simple but very 
 true saying, 'Sorrow is a house best kept shut till 
 gladness becomes a visitor.' ' 
 
 The man sat down, and clasping his hands over 
 his hunched-up knees, drew for a moment thought- 
 fully at his pipe. The fragrant smoke coiled above 
 his bared head and drifted away in little clouds 
 Tinder the caress of the gentle wind. 
 
 "On the surface, Mrs. Railsford, your proverb 
 looks sound enough. My own case, however, dis- 
 proves its wisdom. I too had a sadness, more 
 burdensome possibly than yours, because its genesis 
 was in guilt and sin. But a visitor came and 
 knocked at the door of the house of gloom, and
 
 252 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 where she stood a great light shone into the dark 
 places. You know ... I am referring to you?" 
 
 Saada shook her head. 
 
 "In that case, I had it in my power to help : you 
 have not. Therefore why bother you, or any one, 
 with troubles that can't be avoided?" 
 
 "If not avoided at least they can sometimes be 
 shared . . . and that may mean only half the 
 weight. Won't you let me come to your aid even 
 as you came to mine?" 
 
 The wistful pleading touched her deeply. She 
 hesitated a moment, then said suddenly, 
 
 "I am worrying about my father. There is some- 
 thing which he ought to know . . . must know 
 before very long. Yet I am afraid of what will 
 happen. I believe the shock will break his heart." 
 
 "Your father is a man of the world," he ventured 
 Sympathetically. "There is surely nothing to 
 trouble you that he cannot understand." 
 
 The girl sighed. Her whole nature was crying 
 silently for sympathy, for some one to help her in 
 the lone battle she had fought so long. 
 
 "You must tell me," the man went on, coming 
 closer and touching her arm with the tips of his 
 fingers. "There's nothing in the world I wouldn't 
 do to help you. What do you fear about Sheikh 
 Medene?" 
 
 "He is very old and frail." Her tones were 
 tremulous. "For a long time he has suffered with 
 his heart. I'm afraid ... to tell him what is 
 worrying me in case the shock hurts him. Per-
 
 SEPARATION 253 
 
 haps there is a way out, if only I could see it. 
 Really I ought to have taken him into my confi- 
 dence and have asked his advice before I left the 
 hotel this morning. When I saw him in his room 
 he looked so worn and aged that my courage failed. 
 I wanted to come this desert ride with you . . . 
 to give myself time to think to decide what to do 
 for the best." 
 
 He drew the small hand warmly into his. The 
 very touch seemed to give Saada confidence. She 
 looked up into his face, strong 1 and encouraging 
 yet full of sympathy. 
 
 "You know I will help you . . . that anything 
 you tell me will never pass from my lips. What is 
 your difficulty?" 
 
 In a moment her mind was made up. She stead- 
 ied herself and replied, 
 
 "My husband has left me. I dare not tell my 
 father. It would break his heart, Oh," turning 
 to him quickly, "you don't think I've done wrong 
 to tell you?" 
 
 "Wrong? Of course you've done no wrong, my 
 dear child. We seem to have been fated to help 
 each other over great crises. But really ... I 
 don't understand. How has Mr. Railsford left 
 you? You can't mean he has, gone away and 
 won't return?" 
 
 She did not look at him now, but cast her 
 troubled gaze down at the hot sand, in which she 
 traced imaginary figures. 
 
 "He will never return," she said slowly. "I had
 
 254 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 a letter from him only this morning, while you 
 were away hiring the mare. He says quite defi- 
 nitely he will never come back." 
 
 "I'm afraid you half expected something of the 
 sort. It did not come altogether as a surprise." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" she asked in a puzzled 
 whisper. 
 
 The ghost of a smile clung to his lips. 
 
 "I read the story of your unhappiness in your 
 face your eyes the moment you stopped to talk 
 to me in El Bouira. You were very reticent 
 about your husband. You didn't even mention his 
 name . . . and that was strange from a young 
 bride only just married. I could see something 
 was troubling you. Oh," his manner suddenly be- 
 coming very gentle, "I'm glad you've told me, be- 
 cause at least you will know there is some one who 
 sympathizes and understands. You do trust me, 
 don't you?" 
 
 Their eyes met and in hers was a look of com- 
 plete confidence. 
 
 "I would trust you with my life. I couldn't 
 speak to any one as I have to you. When you 
 asked me, hours ago, I wanted to open my heart. 
 You were right and I was wrong. It does one good 
 to share a sorrow with a friend." 
 
 A deep, true compassion stirred him. 
 
 "I have lived and struggled so that one day I 
 might be worthy to be called your friend," he an- 
 swered simply. "No greater reward could be given 
 to any man. Come, now," dropping into the soft
 
 SEPAKATION 255 
 
 sand at her feet and looking up into her troubled 
 face, "we will face this together, and you will try 
 to be brave and strong, even as I tried when you 
 came to my rescua. Why has Bailsford treated 
 you like this?" 
 
 "I believe he regretted his engagement to me 
 some time before our marriage. He was afraid of 
 the consequences of having an Arab girl as his 
 wife." 
 
 Williams smothered an oath. 
 
 "Then why in the name of fortune didn't he have 
 the courage to say so before? The man's a cur! 
 Forgive my speaking like this about your husband. 
 He knew you were of native blood : he took you for 
 yourself alone . . . because he loved you." 
 
 "Or thought he loved me," she interposed iron- 
 ically. "So many men make that mistake and 
 haven't the courage to draw back while there is 
 time. More than once I half suspected he might 
 regret, and I gave him the chance. But always he 
 assured me his love was strong enough to stand the 
 test. Perhaps I was to blame more than he for 
 going on. I ought to have known that a union be- 
 tween a white man and an Arab girl is foredoomed 
 to disaster." 
 
 Williams set his hands behind him and the 
 clenched knuckles sank deep into the yielding dust 
 as his body straightened. She caught the flash of 
 his grey eyes and the scornful set of his mouth. 
 
 "No ! No, a thousand times, no ! It isn't true. 
 The man who really cares for a woman gives him-
 
 256 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 self, body and soul. He isn't affected by race, 
 creed, or colour. He loves her for herself alone 
 . . . because she is all in all to him . . . because 
 no one else can find a place in his heart. God 
 made them both . . . and he will admit no such 
 distinctions. I speak as I feel : and I do not think 
 I am wrong. His duty was to stand by you." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "At least over this I'm glad Lance had the cour- 
 age of his opinions. For myself, I am beyond car- 
 ing very much. There comes a time when a woman 
 feels her heart is dead. No further hurt can come 
 to wound me more deeply. But I can still feel 
 for my father." 
 
 "Of course you must tell him." 
 
 "I know," she admitted. "The secret can't be 
 kept much longer. You know what it is when 
 one is faced with a great difficulty . . . the temp- 
 tation to drive off the evil hour. In a little while 
 he will wonder why Lance doesn't return. Then 
 I shall have to tell him." 
 
 "You must try not to take it too deeply to heart. 
 At least you are better off than being held for life 
 to a man for whom you have lost respect. Love 
 then would be out of the question." 
 
 "I no longer care for him," she said quietly. 
 "He has killed all the love I ever had. It went 
 . . . when he went ... in the first hour of our 
 married life. No matter what happens now, I 
 never want to see him again." 
 
 "You must try not to be bitter," he pleaded.
 
 SEPARATION 257 
 
 "Perhaps in some wonderful way, which at present 
 you can't see, everything will come right. Men do 
 very foolish things and live to repent. It may be 
 so with your husband." 
 
 Saada looked as though she were pondering 
 very deeply. In a little while she broke the silence. 
 
 "I have tried to make every allowance for pecul- 
 iar circumstances; he was always very rigidly 
 brought up on the 'pride of race' principle and his 
 mother, I know, has all along been against our 
 engagement and marriage. There are some things, 
 though, which it would be unwise to forget. I 
 might forgive, because at times a woman can find it 
 in her heart to forgive anything. But to ignore 
 the past as though nothing had ever happened to 
 try to join up the broken threads . . . no!" shak- 
 ing her head definitely "I could not do that. 
 Life would never be the same. I should always 
 have the feeling that at the first breath of trouble 
 he would leave me to my fate." 
 
 Saada showed neither bitterness nor anger . . . 
 only an effable sadness which was no indication of 
 weakness, because her eyes were aflame with resolu- 
 tion. 
 
 "I could have forgiven him so much more easily 
 had he found a viewpoint and stuck to it," she con- 
 tinued. "He was entitled to hold his opinions 
 about the wisdom of marrying a coloured girl. A 
 good many friends, I believe, tried to influence him 
 directly he came to El Bouira. Still he went on, 
 either for fear of hurting me or because he really
 
 258 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 had some sort of affection. Then money came 
 . . . and that changed everything." 
 
 "Ah ! I didn't know that. Did some one leave 
 him a legacy?" 
 
 "A very large fortune. A rich uncle died, leav- 
 ing him one of the largest estates in England. I 
 suppose he didn't much relish the notion of intro- 
 ducing his Arab wife into the ancestral home." 
 
 But for Williams' tragic expression she could 
 have laughed. If only Lance could share the secret 
 which the sheikh had confided to her she wondered 
 what course then he would have taken. Would he 
 have made the best of a bad job, have stuck to her 
 with some show of loyalty, and been at pains to 
 explain to all and sundry that his girl-wife had no 
 more black blood in her veins than he or they? A 
 spirit of amused contempt seemed to have banished 
 the depression of an hour ago. She began to gather 
 up the cardboard plates and folding cups. 
 
 "We must be starting soon or we shan't make 
 Beni el Ourit before nightfall," she remarked, 
 glancing upward at the sun. 
 
 Williams rose and held out his hand to lift her 
 to her feet. 
 
 "You don't regret having made a confidant of 
 me?" he asked. 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I'm ever so glad. I feel as though a weight 
 is lifted from my mind. But I must confess,'' be- 
 coming suddenly businesslike, "I see no reason why 
 you should be bothered with my difficulties."
 
 SEPARATION 259 
 
 "I am wondering what the future holds for you," 
 he said thoughtfully ; "whether you will go back to 
 England or stay in North Africa." 
 
 She laughed ironically. 
 
 "I've no desire to go back ... a married woman 
 without a husband ! In Africa no one will either 
 know or care, once I leave El Bouira. I shall have 
 to do something to earn a living. My father is 
 very poor." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I quite understand. You don't want to be 
 dependent even on a rich husband. I wonder what 
 you can do?" 
 
 She smiled down at him as he lifted her foot into 
 the stirrup. 
 
 "Please don't worry. Something will come 
 along. I managed to earn a living in England: I 
 shall do the same here, no doubt. Now, having de- 
 cided on the inevitable, shall we forget all about it, 
 and think only of our first and last excursion?" 
 
 Her words struck him with something like a 
 shock. As they rode through the blinding sunlight 
 together he reflected on the cruelty of fate which 
 could allow one man to throw aside a treasure 
 which he himself would give his life to win. Saada 
 was trying to put a brave face on a situation as 
 dark and desperate as it well could be; she talked 
 with a forced gaiety, heedless of the somewhat curt 
 monosyllables with which he replied. His heart 
 was filling with a wild, passionate longing for her 
 in her trouble. He wanted to take the sweet, sad
 
 260 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 face between his hands and to kiss the misery from 
 her lips. The hour had revealed what long had lain 
 dormant in his soul that without her the years 
 ahead must be always empty, because love had 
 come to him. Yes ! It was well to face the truth 
 now. Nothing was to be gained by self-deception. 
 The world held only one woman for him Saada, 
 the wife of another man!
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE MAN EETWEEN 
 
 YIELDING to the entreaties of Mr. Snitch 
 and Hetty, Saada's stay at Beni el Ourit 
 lengthened to a week. She was glad of 
 the opportunity to enjoy surroundings and a so- 
 ciety pleasantly removed from the depressing at- 
 mosphere which had marked the last few days 
 in El Bouira. Theodore Snitch as well he might 
 be was enthusiastic over the progress made. 
 Williams was proving a wonderful organizer. The 
 forty odd workmen whom he had brought had been 
 transformed by his magnetic personality from a 
 disorganized rabble into a well-drilled squad. 
 Four o'clock each morning found them on the site 
 of the buried city, toiling like ants to remove the 
 deep layers of soft sand, and each day new 
 and wonderful treasures were being brought to 
 light. 
 
 Saada usually went down with Hetty in the 
 afternoon to inspect the morning's discoveries. She 
 roamed, fascinated, between long rows of carved 
 figures, many broken, but not a few in perfect 
 preservation a marble Demeter with a face which 
 Williams thought almost as classically beautiful 
 as her own, a Victory Minerva as fine as the famed 
 
 261
 
 262 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 example found at Bulla Regia, a winged Eros in 
 bronze, perfect save for the lost enamelled eyes; 
 dancing nymphs as pretty as any of Murillo's 
 smiling cherubs. In the patio of a Roman house, 
 decorated later by the addition of carved pillars 
 surmounted by horseshoe arches in black and white 
 marble, they uncovered a wonderful mosaic rep- 
 resenting the gift of the vine from Dionysius to 
 Icarus, so beautiful that it seemed almost a pity 
 to carry it away. 
 
 And as she watched the great work going on 
 the unflagging energy and zeal with which John 
 Williams threw himself into the delicate and often 
 difficult operations Saada became conscious that 
 her interest in this man whom her influence had 
 reclaimed was something more than interest in a 
 friend. The realization startled her: she tried to 
 put him out of her thoughts, and, failing utterly, 
 decided to return to El Bouira. She confided her 
 intention to Hetty, who immediately carried it to 
 her father, with consequences directly opposed to 
 those which Saada deemed wise. 
 
 "Splendid!" said Mr. Snitch, turning from an 
 engrossing examination of a number of Libyo- 
 Punic inscriptions which Williams had translated. 
 "I want to give my right-hand another little break : 
 he's been working too hard since you came ; in fact, 
 I'm expecting every day to see him crock up. John, 
 come here : I want to talk to you." 
 
 A tall figure emerged through a cloud of dust, 
 and Williams, with the perspiration streaming
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 263 
 
 down his face and bare shoulders, presented him- 
 self. 
 
 "Mrs. Railsford thinks she had better be getting 
 back," the little man said. "I'd like you to take 
 her . . . and not return till you've had a full week's 
 rest." 
 
 Williams extended a long brown arm. 
 
 "But what about these fellows? I can't leave 
 them. You'll find them chopping up all sorts of 
 treasures . . . marble fountains and Greek vases." 
 
 "You do as you're told," grunted Snitch good- 
 humouredly. "Het and me will look after the 
 dagoes. I'm taking to this excavation like a duck 
 to water. Mrs. Railsford can't go back alone, and 
 as there's no one else to take her, ycru must." 
 
 The big fellow laughed and stared across at 
 Saada, who stood some little distance off, talking to 
 one of the workmen. 
 
 "You're not thinking it too much of a hardship, 
 I reckon," Snitch went on bluntly. 
 
 Williams unshaded his eyes. 
 
 "I should love to go," he answered uneasily. 
 "But really I'd much rather hang on here." 
 
 Snitch shot him a puzzled glance; then he said, 
 "Look here, you go, or you won't get that fifty a 
 month rise I promised you. It's time you learnt 
 to be obedient." 
 
 The other passed his hand across his moist fore- 
 head. 
 
 "It's not money that's bothering me now, sir. 
 I'm just interested in the work that's all."
 
 264 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 The half-truth had to suffice. How could he 
 confess that every hour alone with Saada was but a 
 mad intoxication of hopeless desire to pour out 
 the story of his love? For days past he had done 
 everything in his power without appearing ill- 
 mannered or boorish to avoid her ; now, here was 
 his employer deliberately throwing them together. 
 
 His manner became grim. 
 
 "All right, I'll go. And thank you for the offer 
 of time off. I shan't need it, though. You'll see 
 me back inside of three days." 
 
 Snitch laughed, and pulling contentedly at his 
 cigar, passed on. 
 
 "You'd better not," he called over his shoulder. 
 "If I see you inside a week I'll fire you. 
 Make arrangements to leave first thing tomorrow 
 . . . and don't forget to enjoy yourself." 
 
 He never guessed how far from possible the play- 
 ful admonition was. Love of Saada had brought 
 no joy to John; for ever there rose before him the 
 spectral figure of the man between. Snitch was 
 being unconsciously cruel to throw them together 
 at a time when by all the laws governing happi- 
 ness they should be most far apart. He turned to 
 his work again, revolving every aspect of a condi- 
 tion which bothered him. To have fallen in love 
 with a girl who regarded him only as a friend was 
 bad enough : to love with the full ardour of his soul 
 a woman bound for life to a man she did not care 
 for was infinitely worse. He wondered what Saada 
 would say if she knew : whether she would turn
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 265 
 
 from him as every one had done at the time of his 
 great fall. That would be a hurt more deep than 
 pain of the secret passion consuming him. He 
 could not think of life without her friendship. 
 
 They rode away together in the early morning 
 hours to catch the cool of the day before the sun 
 was fully up; he, wrapped in a sombre silence, 
 she curiously puzzled. Once or twice Saada tried 
 to break the chill of reserve, heedless of the grip 
 he was keeping on himself. 
 
 "You will follow Mr. Snitch's advice to take a few 
 days' rest in El Bouira?" she remarked, when in 
 the approach of twilight clumps of nodding palm 
 and verdant patches of cultivated land marked their 
 near approach to the town. 
 
 For the first time in many hours a smile replaced 
 his gloomy expression. 
 
 "No!" he said with marked emphasis. "I shall 
 risk the old man's wrath by going back. There's 
 nothing I want to do in El Bouira. He thinks it 
 would please me to burn my first month's- pay. 
 Lord ! that's the last thing I'd like to do ... and 
 as I haven't a friend except you " 
 
 "But you will have me . . . and my father/' she 
 retorted innocently. "We will do all we can to 
 make your little holiday pleasant. Of course 
 you'll stay!" 
 
 "No, I shan't !" His voice was resolute and so 
 sharp that she shot him a startled glance. 
 
 "Why? D'you think we shouldn't like to have 
 you with us?"
 
 206 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 "Would you?" he asked, looking her straight in 
 the eyes. 
 
 She met his gaze unflinchingly. 
 
 <r You know I would. I've always liked being 
 with you." 
 
 "Yes, that's just it, and I want to be with you. 
 I know I should be happy so happy that I'm not 
 justified in claiming the reward. I shall go back 
 . . . and I don't think we shall ever see each other 
 again." 
 
 "But why not?" she questioned, momentarily 
 taken off her guard. "Why shouldn't friends see 
 each other sometimes?" 
 
 "If friendship will content them yes!" His 
 cheeks were flaming now, and the swift heaving of 
 his chest betrayed the emotion under which he was 
 labouring. "But does it, for long? A man's inter- 
 est in a woman grows. Then is the time, not to 
 shut it out but to fight it down. Saada, don't you 
 realize what friendship with you means to me?" 
 
 For a little while she made no effort to reply, 
 conscious that at last the veil had been lifted, and 
 behind it she was glimpsing both his heart and her 
 own. 
 
 "Yes, I believe I do," she said at length. "I 
 know what my friendship with you has meant to 
 me . . . the best thing I have ever had in my life." 
 
 He caught at the gloved hand resting lightly on 
 the pommel of the saddle. 
 
 "We are neither children nor strangers," he said 
 feelingly. "We are just souls which have come
 
 together through suffering. Every day, every 
 hour I find myself thinking of you." 
 
 "I think of you too," she admitted gravely. "I 
 was dreadfully lonely till you came." 
 
 "And you will be lonely again when I have 
 gone?" 
 
 His heart almost ceased to beat as he hung on 
 her answer. She bent her head and looked at him 
 through a mist of tears. 
 
 "We mustn't talk about it." The words almost 
 failed her. "You were right, and I was wrong. 
 You must go away ... we ought never to try to 
 see each other again. Oh, why do things happen 
 like this? Why did we meet that night in Con- 
 stantine?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps it was fate that drew 
 us together and made you the one great influence 
 in my life . . . and it is fate that must keep us 
 apart. There is no other way, is there, Saada?" 
 
 "No, John," she murmured faintly. "There is 
 no other way." 
 
 Their hands met in a clasp of perfect under- 
 standing; then he said very gravely, 
 
 "W T e must play the game right through to the 
 end. It was destined we should. I have been 
 thinking about this for days. I didn't want 
 Mr. Snitch to send me with you." 
 
 "Were you afraid?" she asked quietly. 
 
 His head rose and fell. 
 
 "Yes, horribly afraid. I kept telling myself 
 your marriage had cheated me of my happiness.
 
 2G8 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 Another day and it might never have taken place. 
 You would have been free the.n ... to let me tell 
 you that I loved you." 
 
 She stared unseeingly into the blood-red heart 
 of the throbbing sunset. Like those fading fires, 
 her own happiness was passing away . . . and be- 
 fore both of them stretched the lonely desolation 
 of the long night. 
 
 "I only knew what was in my own heart. I should 
 not have let you come had I guessed what you 
 were feeling/' she said miserably. 
 
 He passed his hand over his face and hi a eyes 
 emerged strong with resolution. 
 
 "I vowed to play the game that night after 
 you had pleaded with me. I've tried so hard ever 
 since. I certainly won't falter now." 
 
 She regarded him with the admiration which a 
 woman always feels for strength. 
 
 "I like to hear you say that. It is so like you* 
 That is the very best thing I could say of you, 
 John . . . that I'm very proud of you." 
 
 His face was glowing. 
 
 "I would rather hear that from you than from 
 any one in the world. Dear, the temptation has 
 been very strong ... to tell you sometimes all 
 that I was thinking . . . and feeling. The other 
 man took you and threw you away, like a crushed 
 flower. I wanted just to take that crushed flower 
 up into my hands, to cherish and care for it with 
 all the love I have. Is it very wrong to say that, 
 dear?"
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 269 
 
 She shook her head, and he saw the teardrops 
 glisten on her cheeks. 
 
 "It isn't wrong, John . . . for two people to 
 feel about each other as we do. I believe that God 
 puts love into our hearts. He has taught me to 
 care for you ... to love and admire all that is 
 best in you. But it is His will that we shouldn't 
 go further than that." 
 
 A passion of revolt stirred suddenly in the man. 
 He lifted' his agonized face to the sky, and from the 
 depths of his innermost being there rose the ques- 
 tion which has rung through all the ages, 
 
 "Can the God of Love be so cruel? Long ago I 
 realized that you were made for me. You came 
 into my life to cleanse it, and make it new . . . 
 and clean and pure, like your own. For that I 
 loved you: dedicated myself to you. A shadow 
 falls between us the shadow of the man who 
 broke your heart and went away. For his sin are 
 we to be eternally punished?" 
 
 "I cannot answer that, dear," she said sadly. "I 
 only feel that if we had met sooner things might 
 have been different; but we must go on each in 
 the right way, striving to do our duty. Only in 
 that way will a measure of recompense come." 
 
 "I shall try to find mine in work," he said res- 
 olutely. 
 
 She smiled encouragement. 
 
 "And I, in forgetting not you, but what has 
 happened. Look! we are nearing the Bab Mok- 
 hara gate. Yes for the first and last time, if you
 
 270 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 wish," and with a sudden gesture of surrender, 
 she lifted her hand and allowed him to press it 
 to his lips. 
 
 On the hotel verandah Yakoub was standing, 
 watching the weekly caravans from Touggourt file 
 in stately procession along the Bab el Moldoun. 
 Saada waved to him, and the smile of delighted 
 welcome which he gave showed his dazzling white 
 teeth. 
 
 "Your fader is on high, Missy Saada," he 
 said, helping her to alight and catching the bridles 
 of both the horses. "The mail come two hours 
 since, and he just go up aloft. Thank you, sar," 
 salaaming to Williams. "You lebe the rubbing 
 down ob dem horse to me." 
 
 "I'd better run off to book a room for tonight," 
 said John, mounting the steps at her side. "Per- 
 haps we may meet again after dinner." 
 
 Saada smiled. 
 
 "Come with me. Father will want to thank you 
 for bringing me safely home. He must have been 
 rather lonely while I was away." 
 
 They went up, chatting of anything but the 
 thoughts closest to their hearts, and Saada knocked 
 softly on the sitting-room door. 
 
 "He must have gone into the garden," she said, 
 turning the handle and peeping in. Then, glanc- 
 ing over her shoulder at John, "No, he is here, 
 but I believe he is asleep." 
 
 Williams drew back as she tip-toed softly 
 through the thick pile of the carpet. He saw the
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 271 
 
 slim brown hand touch the bowed shoulder, but 
 the figure in the chair did not move. Then Saada's 
 voice hung on the warm evening air, 
 
 "Father, why don't you speak to me?" 
 
 "Don't wake him," John said, following her in. 
 "The night is very close. He is fast asleep." 
 
 "But look! He is different somehow. Oh, 
 John, what is the matter? He does not speak to 
 me. And his eyes are open. I I " 
 
 Williams caught at her arm and drew her gently 
 aside. Then he bent over the huddled-up form and 
 lifted Sheikh Medene's fingers. They were marble 
 cold. 
 
 "I think he has fainted," he muttered, lowering 
 his ear to the grey lips. A tense silence, then, 
 reaching out to support Saada, he said very ten- 
 derly, "You must be brave, dear; your father is 
 dead." 
 
 The dark eyes widened in horror. 
 
 "Dead! Oh, what shall we do?" she cried, and 
 hiding her face against his shoulder, her body was 
 shaken with sobs. Tenderly he led her to a chair 
 and made her sit down. Then he bent once more 
 over the motionless figure. A white sheet of paper 
 was gripped in the nerveless hand. He took it 
 mechanically, and peered into the pallid face, 
 peaceful in death. 
 
 "He has been dead some little while. His fore- 
 head is quite cold. I believe you told me he suf- 
 fered with his heart?" 
 
 She looked at him through a mist.
 
 272 A DAUGHTER OP THE SANDS 
 
 "Yes, his heart was weak. He must have re- 
 ceived a shock. What is that letter?" 
 
 Williams passed it over. 
 
 "It looks like a communication from a lawyer. 
 He was probably reading it when he passed away." 
 
 "We needn't look further for the cause of death," 
 Saada said after a little while. "The shock of that 
 letter killed him. Eead it. You will understand 
 then something of the character of the man I mar- 
 ried." 
 
 It was the first time she had shown intense bit- 
 terness since John had won her confidence. He 
 could understand exactly how she was feeling, for 
 the letter was about as cruel as anything could be. 
 Lance had instructed Strangeways to deal with the 
 matter, and Strangeways had written abruptly and 
 concisely, without the slightest trace of sympathy, 
 to say that having received instructions from their 
 client, Mr. Lance Railsford, who had entered into 
 a marriage which he very much regretted, they 
 were prepared to make through Sheikh Medene an 
 annual allowance in respect of his daughter, on 
 condition that the said daughter made no attempt 
 whatever either to see, molest, or communicate 
 with her husband. 
 
 Williams came to the end in a white heat of 
 passion. Forgotten for a moment was the dead 
 man in the chair, the grey-faced, horror-stricken 
 girl crushed by the weight of this great catas- 
 trophe; forgotten everything, save that somewhere 
 in the world was a brute in human form who had
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 273 
 
 wantonly brought suffering on the woman he him- 
 self loved. 
 
 "My God! I'll kill him for this!" he ground 
 out savagely, striding up and down the room, his 
 hands clenched. "If I have to follow him to the 
 ends of the earth . . . I'll get him . . . and make 
 him pay." Then, his anger cooling in the presence 
 of death, he ceased abruptly, and came to where 
 Saada sat silent and heartbroken with her grief. 
 
 His hand touched her bowed head and passed to 
 her shoulder; she slid from the chair into the 
 shelter of his arms, and on his bosom sobbed out 
 the full measure of her pain. For a long time he 
 held her thus, crushing her fast, clasping her soft 
 body to his own, knowing that for this one brief 
 hour of sadness God had given her to him. 
 
 "Always I will love and care for you, little 
 Saada," he whispered, burying his face in her hair. 
 "Every hour of my life shall be lived for you. 
 Will you let me care for you?" 
 
 With a shudder she drew herself free and placed 
 her fingers on his lips. 
 
 "Dear, we mustn't think or talk like that. Oh, 
 I know I hurt you ... I see the pain in your 
 dear kind eyes. Love and sympathy are prompt- 
 ing you to say things which later you will regret." 
 
 "Yes, I know," he returned miserably. "What- 
 ever happens, we mustn't lose sight of the unalter- 
 able fact. You are still married, and as long as 
 you live you belong to him." 
 
 She sank down on the floor at his feet, and, with
 
 274 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 his arm laid lovingly upon her shoulder, her small 
 fingers closed upon his hand, and her eyes, full of 
 mournful regrets, were fixed on the pallid face of 
 the dead man. 
 
 "If only he could have been spared to me I could 
 have borne the rest," she said in a lifeless whisper 
 "He was always my best friend ... a mother as 
 well as a father to me ; so gentle and kind and true. 
 There was never an hour but I was in his 
 thoughts; never an hour when I ceased to think of 
 him. Yet, because he was an Arab, my husband 
 despised him. John," looking up at him, "You 
 don't think God meant this to be?" 
 
 "I don't, dear," he answered, gently caressing 
 the thick abundance of her hair. "We are all His 
 creatures, made in His own likeness . . . and 
 though at times," a shadowed smile softened the 
 grimness of his mouth, "some of us defile the image, 
 He cares for all. Your father was as much to Him 
 as the noblest white man who ever breathed." 
 
 "You do believe that ... in spite of his faith?" 
 she questioned eagerly. 
 
 He inclined his head reverently. 
 
 "His Allah was your God and mine no more, 
 no less. We are all His, sinner and saint, black 
 and white. Should I think less or cease to care 
 because you are an Arab girl?" 
 
 For an instant the impulse was strong upon her 
 to tell him the story of her birth. And yet perhaps 
 it were better never known. No good purpose 
 could be served by telling it now. In a little while
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 275 
 
 this man and she must go their separate 
 ways. . . . 
 
 "You will always be my friend, John?" Her 
 hand slid trustingly into his again. 
 
 "Always your friend loving you, through sun- 
 shine and storm, to life's end/' he answered, touch- 
 ing her warm flesh with his lips. "The thought 
 of you will lift me up and carry me on, perhaps 
 through dark and dangerous days, but always 
 towards the light. We stand on the edge of a gulf 
 . . . you and I, Saada. On the far side I see happi- 
 ness . . . my happiness and yours together, not 
 in this world, but in the world beyond. Below . . . 
 I see dark places through which you and I must 
 pass alone. But one day we shall come together 
 ... is it wrong to tell you this?" 
 
 "I know you are trying to comfort me," she 
 muttered brokenly. 
 
 "If the knowledge of my love is comfort, then 
 God will surely forgive my comforting you," he 
 answered. "I am not one of those who think 
 happiness should be seized at any cost. You 
 taught me that lesson long ago." 
 
 He looked into her brave eyes, meeting his so 
 directly, and went on, 
 
 "We shall be often lonely. My way will lie 
 apart from yours. But always, dear, you will feel 
 you can come to me." 
 
 He spoke out of the fulness of his soul, knowing 
 that not only did he worship her with all the 
 strength of his strong body and vigorous mind, but
 
 276 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 that she was the one woman in all the world to him. 
 Looking back through all the dreariness of the past, 
 he knew that he had lived only for this hour, dur- 
 ing which he had found at last the treasure he had 
 searched for. And he had found her too late. She 
 knew it too. It was in her eyes, her voice, the 
 clinging touch of the soft hands that reached up 
 and took his face between them. 
 
 "Try to help me too . . . not to forget," she 
 pleaded. "You have been tempted, and you know 
 the way. I I am so weak and miserable. Where- 
 ever I look, John, I see only the darkness ahead." 
 
 "We must be very brave and very strong, dear," 
 he said again. "The temptation is to feel we are 
 justified: you especially, because of the wrong 
 done you. The man to whom you are bound has 
 killed your father." 
 
 "And because of that I am learning to hate him," 
 she cried, with startling vehemence. "A little 
 while ago, when he sent me that cruel letter, I told 
 myself he had no power to hurt me any more. 
 Now he has done this cruel thing, and I can never, 
 never forgive him." 
 
 The look he gave her checked the furious current 
 of her words. 
 
 "Men strike in the dark and wound in un- 
 expected places. Railsford never meant to do all 
 this. The time must come when he will realize the 
 full measure of his guilt. A little while ago I 
 would have killed him cheerfully have gone to the 
 far ends of the earth to make him pay. I have
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 277 
 
 learned this last half-hour that all our lives, 
 yours, his, and mine, are in the hands of One who 
 will mould them to His will." 
 
 She regarded him with a sudden questioning. 
 
 "John, what makes you speak like that?" 
 
 "What makes me?" His lips lifted in a slow 
 smile. "You are telling yourself that once I was 
 so weak. I was until love came . . . your love 
 for me ... a new and wonderful power which 
 just crept into my poor life and made it altogether 
 different. Love, the love of a good woman like 
 you, has worked a miracle in me. I am what I am, 
 or ever shall be, because of your love for me. 
 Don't you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I am beginning to understand," she an- 
 swered softly. "It helps me ever so much when I 
 am tempted to be despondent. Everything isn't 
 yet lost, John. Something very big and grand has 
 come to both of us to help us through the dark- 
 ness." 
 
 She rose, looking wonderfully composed, and 
 after kissing the dead man's forehead, drew the 
 white folds of his silk robe over his face. Then she 
 turned again to John with a clear, understanding 
 gaze. Looking at her thus in silence a long min- 
 ute, he read her purpose and her promise ... to 
 be true, though they loved each other, to the best 
 that was in them. 
 
 "We will do our utmost always, Saada. It 
 won't be easy, and when we are far away from each 
 other the longing to meet will sweep over us again
 
 278 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 and again. But through it all we shall know, we 
 always have our love." 
 
 He took her hand, and in silence they passed out 
 together. 
 
 There was a good deal to be done . . . officials, 
 both native and European, to be dealt with, the fu- 
 neral arrangements to be made. John was glad 
 now that Theodore Snitch had insisted on his tak- 
 ing the full week off. He threw his whole energy 
 into making everything as easy as possible for 
 Saada. 
 
 The sheikh was to be buried with the full rites of 
 the faith in which he had always lived and died. 
 The interment took place on the Wednesday, after 
 a brief but dignified service in the Great Mosque of 
 El Bouira, a beautiful building dating from the 
 time of Abou-ben-Mohammed El Aghlab. Then, 
 the coffin draped in rich hangings and carried by 
 bearers, a procession was formed, and walked to 
 the dirge of sad music to the Arab cemetery be- 
 yond the town. Both John and Saada followed, 
 picking their way through the numerous ornamen- 
 tal graves, richly decorated with blue tiles and 
 surmounted by a carved turban or a gilded crescent. 
 The coffin was lowered, the imam read the com- 
 mittal service and recited a few portions from the 
 Koran ; then to the beat of bendirs and the wailing 
 of the mourners, the party returned to the town. 
 
 Saada had already made her plans to sell the 
 furnishings of the villa, to obtain release from the
 
 THE MAN BETWEEN 279 
 
 agreement which Lance had entered into, and 
 with Yakoub to return to Tunis. 
 
 "I must be there to see my father's affairs wound 
 up/' she explained to John. "He had a large 
 house, although how he has left it I don't know." 
 
 "But you must promise, if you have any diffi- 
 culty, to send for me," he insisted. 
 
 "If I feel I need you I will send," she told him. 
 
 He remained at the hotel until the moment for 
 her departure came. They talked a little while 
 till the Transatlantique company's car was ready 
 to take her on the first stage of the journey, as far 
 as Biskra. Then, heavy of heart, she took leave 
 of him and strove to fix her thoughts on the new 
 life that lay before her.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MUHAMMED BEY 
 
 ALONE in the once stately palace home 
 near the Rue Sidi Abdallah, Saada found 
 her hands more than full. As she antici- 
 pated, the sheikh's affairs were terribly involved 
 ... so much so that time and again she was 
 tempted to send for John. The thought, however, 
 of the good work he was doing under Theodore 
 Snitch, and the progress he was making, stayed 
 her: with the faithful Yakoub helping her, 
 she faced the difficulties in a spirit of calm reso- 
 lution. 
 
 One of her first tasks was purely personal . . . 
 to write to Lance's lawyers informing them of the 
 sheikh's death, and to tell them that under no cir- 
 cumstances would she consent to receive a penny of 
 her husband's money. More, she returned a full 
 statement of affairs at El Bouira, and enclosed the 
 agreement release with the balance received after 
 all claims had been met. 
 
 When this was done she felt more free. At least 
 she w r as no longer beholden to the man who had 
 deserted her. 
 
 While outstanding matters in connection with 
 the sheikh's affairs remained to be settled, she had 
 
 280
 
 MUHAMMED BEY 281 
 
 time to examine the papers which the sheikh had 
 left her. She found among them all the records 
 necessary to establish her identity : the birth and 
 marriage certificates of her mother and father, the 
 certificate of her own birth, and the signed and 
 witnessed statement of the sheikh himself. There 
 were, in addition, besides several articles of jew- 
 ellery bearing the Denton family crest and mon- 
 ogram, a coloured photograph of herself, taken 
 when a baby, definitely recognizable by the tiny 
 birthmark on the left side of her throat. 
 
 These papers she sealed up and took to the offices 
 Of the British Consul in the Place de la Bourse 
 beyond the Port de France. 
 
 An examination of Sheikh Medene's accounts re- 
 vealed a sad and deplorable state of affairs. They 
 went back to the time when he had sent her to her 
 first expensive school in Paris, and covered a period 
 of five years ... up to the day when the impos- 
 sibility of raising further sums had forced him to 
 write and say that her schooldays must come to a 
 close. Saada went through them, sad at heart 
 the record of her foster-father's generous unselfish- 
 ness. From that expense, having raised the 
 necessary money at an extortionate rate of interest, 
 he appeared never to have recovered. 
 
 The house itself, once a store of stately treasures, 
 was heavily mortgaged to an Arab merchant in the 
 Souk-el-Chehiaa. As day followed day, and Saada 
 met and dealt with fresh hordes of creditors buy- 
 ing them off as best she could by making over
 
 282 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 the rich furnishings and hangings the position 
 changed from bad to worse. 
 
 One afternoon she returned from a walk in the 
 Belvedere Gardens at the far end of the long, 
 straight Avenue de Paris, her sole relaxation after 
 a week's unremitting work, to see walking in the 
 courtyard at Yakoub's side a tall, dignified-looking 
 Arab who was speaking with a great deal of ani- 
 mation. 
 
 As she passed under the cool colonnaded arch, 
 hung with baskets of swinging flowers, Yakoub 
 hurried towards her, and said, 
 
 "Miss Saada, the Sheikh Muhammed Bey has 
 called to pay his respects, and he begs to be allowed 
 to see you in private to discuss a matter of urgent 
 business." 
 
 Saada glanced across at the big bernoused figure 
 idly watching the goldfish darting to and fro in the 
 fountain basin. 
 
 "Muhammed Bey?" she repeated, a shadow set- 
 tling on her face. "Isn't he our biggest creditor, 
 Yakoub ^the merchant who has threatened to sell 
 us up unless all his claims are settled immedi- 
 ately?" 
 
 Yakoub inclined his head. 
 
 "Indeed so, Miss Saada, a wealthy and powerful 
 Arab, but withal a man renowned for his charity 
 and good works. He wishes to explain the letter 
 which you received from the Arab lawyers this 
 morning." 
 
 "Then I will see him," she said, passing betweeni
 
 MUHAMMED BEY 283 
 
 the twisted marble columns into a three-sided door- 
 less room which opened directly on to the court- 
 yard. "I will receive him here." 
 
 Yakoub went out to acquaint the visitor and 
 hurried off to prepare coffee. Saada rose and be- 
 gan to draw off her gloves, as the good-looking 
 Arab bowed and greeted her with a friendly sal- 
 utation. 
 
 "Your good servant has doubtless acquainted 
 you with the object of my visit," Muhammed Bey 
 said, sinking down on the pile of cushions which 
 the girl set for him. "I come to offer my apolo- 
 gies, Miss Medene, for the harsh tone of the letter 
 which my lawyers sent to you yesterday. I did 
 not see it until this morning. I regret exceedingly 
 it was ever sent." 
 
 Saada smothered a sigh and smiled bravely. 
 
 "It was only businesslike, Muhammed Bey," she 
 said quietly. "I have discovered that my father" 
 she had decided always to speak of the sheikh 
 as her father "owed you large sums of money. 
 You are only one among several, although I agree 
 you are the largest creditor. What do you wish 
 me to do?" 
 
 The Arab stroked his glossy black beard, and 
 all the while his sombre dark eyes were fixed on 
 her intently. His voice was very pleasant as he 
 answered, 
 
 "I have learned something, Miss Medene, of the 
 unfortunate position in which you find yourself. 
 Your father died heavily in debt. Honouring his
 
 284 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 name and memory as you do, you are naturally 
 anxious he should escape, even death, the greatest 
 stigma that can be attached to an ancient and hon- 
 oured family. You wish to see all his debts hon- 
 ourably met." 
 
 "Indeed I do," she said earnestly. "But the 
 claims are so many that the task appears im- 
 possible. I have already sold all the carpets and 
 the bulk of the furniture; the house, as you know, 
 is mortgaged . . . and your account still remains 
 to be paid." 
 
 Muhammed Bey toyed with the string of amber 
 beads about his neck. 
 
 "I should esteem it an honour, out of respect to 
 your dead father, to remit the debt. But that I 
 know, Miss Medene, you would never agree to. I 
 have called, therefore, to make another suggestion. 
 You have heard of me as a rich merchant in this 
 town. In the souks many of the largest shops are 
 owned by me. My caravans travel by all the routes 
 across North Africa from Rabat to Fez and Al- 
 giers, from Tunis to Biskra, and some across Arabia 
 even as far as Jedda, the gate to Mecca, and to 
 distant Baghdad. Such a business, you realize, in- 
 volves a great deal of work." 
 
 "And necessitates that every one pays you to 
 the full," she interposed, quite mistaking his inten- 
 tion. 
 
 He smiled genially. 
 
 "That, of course, is important. But w r hat is 
 even more important to me is to possess an effi-
 
 MUHAMMED BEY 285 
 
 cient right hand. I have just lost my secretary 
 young Sukri Chemal, who has gone to Sfax to 
 start a business of his own. I need some one with 
 a knowledge of French and English as well as of 
 our own tongue. In consideration of my aban- 
 doning all claims on your father's estate, will you 
 come and work for me?" 
 
 To Saada it meant a great deal to see her foster- 
 father's name cleared of the reproach which threat- 
 ened it. She rose and took a bundle of papers 
 from a nacre-topped coffer and began to read rap- 
 idly. 
 
 "I believe," she said, "that apart from your 
 claim, Muhammed Bey, all the other creditors 
 could be paid. I think I could do as you wish 
 for a time, at any rate." 
 
 "Of course you would be comfortably housed and 
 well cared for under my roof," the Arab continued. 
 "I should pay you a salary commensurate with 
 your needs, and when the debt is wiped off every- 
 thing would depend on your usefulness to me we 
 should arrange other terms. I assure you, Miss 
 Medene, you would n'ot find me ungenerous." 
 . "You would wish me to live in your house?" 
 Saada mused. 
 
 "It would be better so, because that would save 
 you much money. Hotels in Tunis are expensive 
 just now. You would share the apartments with 
 my two wives. Like you, they are both young, 
 and enjoy a considerable measure of freedom. I 
 have a fine house in the city, and another at Ham-
 
 286 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 mam-el-Lif. However," with a wave of his richly- 
 jewelled hand, "perhaps you would like to think 
 over the proposition and consult your friends 
 about it." 
 
 "I have no friends in Tunis," she replied quickly, 
 "and I don't think the matter requires consider- 
 ation. It is very kind of you to make such a 
 suggestion. I am willing to agree to your terms, 
 and to come whenever you need me." 
 
 Muhammed Bey inclined his turbaned head. 
 
 "I am honoured by your complaisance, made- 
 moiselle," he said, drawing the folds of his bernouse 
 about him as he rose. "If you can place your 
 services at my disposal, from the beginning of next 
 month, I shall indeed be glad." 
 
 He kissed his own hand as a sign that, so far 
 as he was concerned, the bargain would be strictly 
 adhered to, and thanking her again, passed a bless- 
 ing upon the house and the shelter it had given 
 him, drained the cup of coffee and went out a 
 majestic figure into the white sunlight of the 
 afternoon.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 
 
 ALONG summer had lingered on into an 
 early autumn, and on the wide stretches 
 of broadland around Lance Railsford's 
 stately home a few cruising yachts were still afloat 
 enjoying the bright October days. Winter, how- 
 ever, arrived with unexpected suddenness; the 
 bright-hued flowers which decked the dykes and 
 riversides vanished, and within a week the marshes 
 were buried under a white coverlet of snow. The 
 drear time of the year had come with a vengeance. 
 On the flats and seashore grey-backed Kentishmen 
 joined the ringed plovers and sanderlings, a certain 
 sign that the cold weather would last. 
 
 For the young squire of Landringham a solitary 
 existence set in. The heavy snowfall had made 
 untraversable the highways across the marshes; 
 the long days through, the steely river was blurred 
 by Arctic winds which swept the drear misty wastes 
 and gave to the surrounding countryside the 
 appearance of Russian steppes. There were no 
 frost fairies at work, diamonding the catkins 
 and pine-needles with crystal rime; feathery reed 
 plumes, brave when ice-coated, bent downcast 
 heads to the biting breeze. The carrs and spinneys 
 
 287
 
 288 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 were mere sedge-traps; even the marshman with 
 his old-fashioned muzzle-loading gun, tired of 
 waiting for golden plover to flight to the uplands, 
 sought the warmth of his own fireside. Black 
 winter had placed a death-hand upon the land. 
 
 In the panelled library Lance sat alone, every 
 now and then turning a watchful eye on the huge 
 octagonal dial of the Parliament clock. As it 
 showed the hour of seven, he touched a bell and 
 his man appeared. 
 
 "Tell Hayden to have the car ready for the 
 station within ten minutes," he said irritably. 
 "General Bailey has wired to say he will arrive by 
 the seven-thirty instead of the ten o'clock. Thank 
 you; that is all." 
 
 As the door closed behind the silent-footed Bates, 
 Eailsford dropped back into the depths of the 
 spacious chair and relapsed once more into a moody 
 silence. A year had changed him. No longer 
 was the boyish looking face bright with exuberance ; 
 deep lines of discontent sagged about a peevish 
 mouth; the black hair at his temples had thinned 
 visibly, and in the shadowed eyes was often a look 
 of utter dejection. The truth was that wealth and 
 idleness had spoiled him. He was never a keen 
 sportsman, so had found no pleasure either in 
 sailing or fishing the waterways in summer, or in 
 shooting his own covers through the winter. He 
 had become an aimless, purposeless man, without 
 ambition and without amusements. 
 
 He had thought that Landringham, with its man-
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 289 
 
 ifold attractions, would fill each hour of his life 
 with enjoyment; he was learning already that 
 great possessions carry great responsibilities. The 
 care of the vast estate bothered him ; he found little 
 interest either in his own position or that of his 
 tenantry. The social lure, upon which his mother 
 had lain such a stress, had proved a disillusion- 
 ment. In spite of his wealth he had made few 
 friends. In some mysterious manner the news of 
 his ill-starred marriage had become fairly general 
 public property : people wanted to know why Land- 
 ringham lacked its mistress, and receiving no sat- 
 isfactory answer, held aloof. The effect upon 
 a nature so self-conscious as Lance's was 
 quickly apparent and he became an austere, silent 
 man. 
 
 He was pleased when Bailey wrote to him from 
 Marseille saying that, having finished with the ex- 
 pedition, he was returning to England and hoped 
 they would meet in town. By return Lance had 
 written asking him to put in the first free week-end 
 with him. 
 
 A little before eight the car returned, bringing 
 the visitor the same genial, time-worn soldier of 
 fortune, as free of speech and easy of manner as 
 when Lance had last seen him at El Bouira. 
 
 "Life has wrought wonderful changes for you, 
 my boy," he remarked half an hour later, when they 
 stood together by the library fire, waiting for the 
 dinner-gong to sound. "How are you enjoying 
 your new and wonderful inheritance?"
 
 290 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 The younger man turned on his companion a look 
 of utter weariness. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, General, I'm dead sick of 
 it all," he remarked sullenly. "I was turning 
 things over in my mind before you arrived . . . 
 and I've almost decided to shut the beastly place 
 up and to get back to North Africa. However, 
 you look tired and hungry: there goes the gong. 
 We'll talk about it after dinner." 
 
 "Let's take our cigars to the library, it's warmer 
 there," Railsford said an hour later. "I hate this 
 huge barn, large enough to dine fifty people. Why 
 my uncle didn't sell the place in his lifetime, in- 
 stead of burdening me with it, I can't make out. 
 I'd have done far better with the interest on the 
 money." 
 
 "Family pride, my boy," laughed Bailey, slap- 
 ping his host genially on the shoulder. "The old 
 man evidently hoped to see the family title revived 
 in your person. I'm sorry if things aren't going 
 as well as you could wish. What's the trouble?" 
 
 "My mother, for one thing," Lance answered 
 glumly. "She's wintering in the Riviera, and be- 
 tween the intervals of losing much money and win- 
 ning a little, spends her time in sending me insult- 
 ing letters." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear this," Bailey said feelingly. 
 "I hope the estrangement is only temporary. You 
 were always such big pals. It seems a pity for 
 mother and son to be at loggerheads."
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 291 
 
 Railsford emitted a harsh laugh. 
 
 "We've never been anything else since I took 
 possession of the place. My uncle, you know, left 
 her two thousand a year. She didn't think it 
 enough : thought she ought to have at least ten 
 thousand out of the estate . . . and I jibbed." 
 
 "Naturally! An estate like this must be very 
 expensive to keep up." 
 
 "It wasn't that altogether. It was the spirit 
 which prompted the demand. Her point was that 
 if Uncle Hugh had known I was engaged or mar- 
 ried to an Arab girl he wouldn't have left me a 
 penny. She tactfully kept the news from him, and 
 consequently argues that she is as much entitled 
 to a big share of the fortune as I am." 
 
 Bailey laughed heartily. 
 
 "Sounds almost like family blackmail, Lance. 
 Of course you didn't give way?" 
 
 He negatived the suggestion sharply. 
 
 "On principle, no. Besides, I don't approve of 
 the way she is spending what she has. She in- 
 dulges in every luxury and extravagance, and has 
 a perfect mania for gambling. Before she went 
 away she used to get up bridge parties ; they began 
 at eleven in the morning and finished God knows 
 what time of the night, until the house became a 
 veritable bear-garden of greedy, haggling, quarrel- 
 some old women. At last I had to tell her I'd have 
 no more of it. I cleared the whole lot out, and she 
 went off in a huff to the south of France, since 
 when her first year's two thousand has melted into
 
 292 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 thin air and she's set herself to pledge my credit 
 for more." 
 
 "Rather unpleasant, these family jars, eh?" 
 Bailey sipped thoughtfully at his wine while his 
 glance roved over the dignified riches of the room. 
 "However, you've a very comfy shop here, and no 
 doubt you get plenty of quiet amusement out of it." 
 
 "Amusement!" Lance yawned. "I'm bored 
 stiff. I hate the people and I loathe the country- 
 side. Sport doesn't interest me at all; club life 
 tires me, and altogether I'm fed up with the whole 
 business. That's why, before dinner I said I 
 thought of getting back to Africa." 
 
 The General sat up, his curiosity aroused. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Life is more free. There you can do as you 
 like; here you can't. Every action is noted and 
 commented upon. In an Eastern land it is so 
 different." 
 
 "You didn't find it so very free and easy in El 
 Bouira, dear boy. By the by, what happened to 
 that native wife of yours? A great pity you ever 
 married. You might have found a nice English 
 girl and settled down here quite happily. That's 
 what you want ... to found a family. You've 
 money, position, everything and yet, I suppose," 
 turning a thoughtful glance on the crackling cedar 
 logs, "it's quite out of the question." 
 
 A regretful sigh drifted between them. Rails- 
 ford, leaning back, seemed to be lost in a study of 
 the richly-carved oak ceiling. Faint whirls of
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 293 
 
 gossamer-blue smoke drifted lazily in the warm air 
 and took fancy shapes until he could have sworn 
 that they formed the outline of a face wondrously 
 beautiful yet pitifully sad. 
 
 He shook himself and came to ground again, to 
 see Bailey regarding him with a strangely insist- 
 ent stare. He was trying to frame an answer when 
 the other broke in with, 
 
 "There's no possibility of getting that wretched 
 marriage annulled, I suppose? Money, you know, 
 Lance, can work most things. Isn't there a loop- 
 hole, somewhere, on the question of religion? It 
 shouldn't be difficult to make out that as she was 
 a Mahommedan and you a Christian, and the cere- 
 mony was performed only according to Christian 
 rites, there was a legal flaw. Lawyers are such 
 plausible beggars these days ; they manage to drive 
 a coach and horses through most things; couldn't 
 you " 
 
 "I've no wish to get the marriage annulled," 
 he said wearily. "If I could, I shouldn't want to 
 marry any one else." 
 
 Bailey straightened and smirched his shirt- 
 front with a fall of ash. 
 
 "You don't mean to say . . . you regret hav- 
 ing left her?" 
 
 The other stirred uneasily beneath the question- 
 ing look. 
 
 "I don't know what I regret," he replied eva- 
 sively. "Sometimes the feeling comes over me that 
 I've been an awful brute. I try to put her out of
 
 my mind, but I can't. She's always with me, Gen- 
 eral. For days I sit here alone, long hours to- 
 gether, without seeing a soul ; I don't want any one 
 near me . . . and my thoughts go back to the 
 happiest time in my life . . . the engagement days 
 which we spent together in Tunis." 
 
 "My dear fellow " 
 
 Lance pushed back his chair and, rising, set his 
 shoulders against the oak mantelpiece. 
 
 "It's true," he admitted. "She just haunts me. 
 I see her everywhere, and in the long evenings, 
 when this great house is silent as the grave, I 
 hear her voice . . . and I tell myself ... I can't 
 live without her." 
 
 The older man laughed satirically. 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense. You need a change, that's 
 all. It's foolish to repine. For one thing, you 
 couldn't bring her here; for another, if she has 
 any self-respect and from what I've heard she 
 possesses a good deal you'd only meet with a snub 
 for your pains. My advice is don't complicate 
 an already delicate situation. You appear to have 
 trouble enough on hand over your mother." 
 
 Railsford looked grim. 
 
 "Frankly, mother doesn't distress me over 
 much," he said, passing his hand reflectively over 
 his smooth-shaven chin. "She is deliberately lay- 
 ing up her own store of trouble and must abide 
 by the consequences. But what annoys me is the 
 fact that her influence started a heap of trouble for 
 me."
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 295 
 
 "In what way, Lance?" 
 
 The admission seemed more than a little cow- 
 ardly. He made it, all the same. 
 
 "Well, to begin with, I don't believe I should' 
 ever have dreamt of throwing Saada over if it 
 hadn't been for her. She was always driving home 
 the danger of a mixed marriage. I went into the 
 engagement happily enough. I believe the mar- 
 riage would have been a success, if only I had given 
 it a chance." 
 
 Bailey's grey head moved deliberately from side 
 to side. 
 
 "I don't, Lance. Your mother was right. Be- 
 sides, if you blame her you should blame me too. 
 I, perhaps, did as much as any one to dissuade you. 
 My only regret was, I couldn't influence you in 
 time. The news of the wedding upset me very 
 much indeed. Now, if I were you," becoming sud- 
 denly animated, "I should just pack up that is, if 
 you're feeling fed up with this place, and heaven 
 alone knows why you should be and clear off 
 . . . anywhere, except to North Africa, Try the 
 South Seas, for example. At this time of the year 
 they're perfectly delightful." 
 
 "No!" Lance spoke with vigour, "if I go any- 
 where it will be to North Africa. It's a strange 
 thing, General, but one associates certain places 
 with one's happy memories. When I think of 
 Tunis now I recall the gorgeous sunny hours when 
 Saada and I were just together. I mean to go to 
 Tunis and see if I cannot catch something of the
 
 296 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 spirit of the past. I shall know, when I get there 
 and visit some of the old familiar spots, whether 
 she is essential to my future as I am beginning to 
 think she is. If so, I shall simply take my courage 
 in both hands and ask her to come back again." 
 
 "Of course she'll do nothing of the sort," Bailey 
 snorted. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," the other answered confidently. 
 "She must have had a pretty rotten time, poor girl. 
 She turned down the offer I made through the law- 
 yers; said she'd never touch a penny of my money 
 . . . and goodness knows, the old man has little 
 enough to play with ! My impression is that time 
 has softened the blow there's no doubt my going 
 was a dreadful shock and that if she gets the 
 chance to live with me as my wife, especially under 
 the present changed conditions, she'll take it." 
 
 General Bailey smiled to himself. As a keen 
 observer of life he possessed a fairly sound esti- 
 mate of women. And he certainly showed a shrewd 
 opinion of his young friend's character. 
 
 "I see what it is, Lance," he ventured, flicking 
 the ash from his cigar with a quiet movement of 
 his little finger. "During the time you have boxed 
 yourself up here alone you've given yourself up to 
 thinking about your wife; and you are deluding 
 yourself into imagining you made a colossal mis- 
 take, which can now be put right by the stroke of 
 a pen. You like a man to have the courage of his 
 own opinions, don't you?" 
 
 Lance looked uneasy.
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 297 
 
 "Of course ; I value yours very highly, General." 
 
 "Very well, then. I'll be quite candid, because I 
 believe it will help you over a great difficulty. I 
 advised you to break your engagement to a col- 
 oured girl. However, you took the fatal step, mar- 
 ried her and then broke away when it was too late. 
 Now the remembrance of that is bothering you 
 and you seem to think you have only to write to 
 her, and she will consent to pick up the broken 
 threads again." 
 
 "Something tells me I could be very happy with 
 her," he muttered. "I know I did wrong . . . and 
 that's why I'm not enjoying this fine inheritance. I 
 really did love her in a funny sort of way only I 
 allowed myself to be influenced when I oughtn't 
 to have been. My idea is either to go out or to 
 send and ask her to rejoin me." 
 
 "Both of which courses are doomed to failure," 
 replied Bailey sagely. "You can't right this parti- 
 cular sort of wrong in that way. She knows you 
 had to choose between her and money and money 
 won. Very well ! Her answer, in so many words, 
 would be, 'YcfU made your decision ; get on with it.' 
 And get on with it you must." 
 
 The troubled look in Railsford's eyes was deep- 
 ening. He had longed for an opportunity to un- 
 burden himself of the load of misery and regret 
 which lay so heavily on his soul; now that the 
 chance had come, the best advice his friend could 
 give him was to make up his mind to abide by the 
 consequences of his sin.
 
 298 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 He turned sharply in the middle of the room, his 
 lined face tragically sad. But in his voice was a 
 note of eager, passionate wistfulness. 
 
 "I'd give anything to get her back!" he said 
 breathlessly. "You don't know the hell of torture 
 I've been through in this great desolate place. 
 I've no companions, no interests. Money means 
 nothing to me. I've lost all pleasure in spend- 
 ing on myself. My mother has failed me. I'm 
 alone . . . alone . . . and in all the world no one 
 cares what becomes of me." 
 
 Bailey tapped the toe of his patent leather shoe 
 irritably against the fender rail. 
 
 "Tut! tut! Lance, you're not a child. You did 
 what you did of your own free will. The price is 
 you are separated from your wife. The girl 
 who will refuse a monetary consideration when 
 she is hard pressed is not the sort to let any man 
 play bat and shuttlecock with her heart. If you 
 want to make some amends, try a roundabout 
 method of making provision for her; but, for 
 Heaven's sake, don't court a rebuff by trying to call 
 an impossible truce. You're still ydung, and very 
 impressionable. In time you'll learn to forget all 
 about her, and then ..." 
 
 "I shall never forget," he replied, turning away. 
 "Conscience won't allow a fellow to forget some 
 things. Sooner or later they come home to roost. 
 However, we won't talk any more about it to- 
 night, at any rate. What do you say to playing me 
 a hundred up?"
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 299 
 
 They adjourned to the billiards-room and stayed 
 to a late hour. A little before midnight Lance 
 showed Bailey to his room; then, turning quietly 
 away, he went down to the library and seated him- 
 self at his desk. The deep silence into which the 
 house had sunk was an aid to his thoughts. He 
 wrote feverishly, out of the fulness of his heart 
 ... a letter full of weariness and bitter regrets, 
 a plea to be forgiven, and to be allowed to return 
 again. Not kriowing where to find Saada, he 
 addressed it to her at her father's house in Tunis, 
 and posting it in the box in the hall, crept wearily 
 Up to his room.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 GOD'S GIFT 
 
 IN the service of Muhammed Bey kind of 
 heart and always courteous Saada found a 
 happiness she never dared hope for. The 
 rich, middle-aged merchant became almost a 
 second foster-father. With his two young wives, 
 Nakhla and Zadia, eagerly seconding his endeav- 
 ours, he set himself to make her happy and comfort- 
 able in her new surroundings. From Monday to 
 Friday she worked in his large store behind the 
 Souk-el-Attarine, spending the week-end at his 
 palatial out-town residence in beautiful Hammam- 
 el-Lif. Here, on the sun-kissed shores of the Gulf 
 of Tunis, beneath the fir-clad slopes of the moun- 
 tain a spot delightfully immortalized in Flau- 
 bert's "Salambo," the book which Theodore Snitch 
 was always raving about Saada found pleasant 
 distractions from the sadness which her husband's 
 cruelty had flung across her life . . . through the 
 summer days, bathing in the blue waters of the 
 bay, and long walks in the welcome forest glade. 
 There was a deal of gaiety, too, in the luxurious 
 gardens of the Casino, and frequent excursions by 
 car and carriage to such delightful spots as Ham- 
 mamet and Ksar-er-Choula, where for long hours 
 
 300
 
 GOD'S GIFT 301 
 
 together she would interest herself wandering 
 alone through the wonderful Koman ruins. 
 
 At such times her thoughts were often with 
 John, still working splendidly at his arduous dut- 
 ies in the sun-baked sands of Beni el Ourit. 
 Snitch wrote regularly once a month telling of the 
 many amazing discoveries, and of John's progress. 
 He had made, and saved, a good deal of money ; no 
 longer did he shrink from his fellows under an 
 alien name. To all the world he was henceforth- 
 John Forrester, the man who had made good. 
 
 Saada was delighted with the news. John she 
 knew, would glory in her freedom from care, even 
 as she rejoiced in his emancipation. 
 
 Towards the end of the year the fine weather, 
 which had held up since the previous March, broke 
 suddenly, and the season of storms, accompanied 
 by fierce downpours of rain, set in. For days to- 
 gether, the Marsa Hill and the craggy summit of 
 the Djebel-Bou-Kornein were blotted out by rolling 
 banks of mist, driving in from the sea. The wind 
 swung round to the north, gathering force day by 
 day, until the seas were breaking upon the harbour- 
 works at La Golette with a force which threatened 
 to sweep them away. A bitter cold succeeded the 
 balmy warmth of clear, sunshiny days ; the streets, 
 winnowed by icy blasts which drove to shelter the 
 native population, were desolate and deserted. In 
 the last forty years Tunis had known no such ex- 
 perience. Business was almost at a standstill ; so 
 much so that Muhammed Bey decided to shut down
 
 302 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 for two months and remove with his family to 
 Biskra, where the sun -always shines. Saada was 
 to go too, and was in the throes of clearing up her 
 office work when an interruption occurred to 
 change her plans. Into her small room, behind 
 the spacious, low-ceilinged apartment given over 
 to the display of rich hangings and valuable car- 
 pets, stepped Yakoub, holding a letter. 
 
 "For you, m'am," he said, bowing respectfully. 
 "I apologizes for de fat delay, but it hab been all 
 roun' dis yeah town after bein' taken to the Rue 
 Sidi Abdallah." 
 
 Saada went a little white when she recognized 
 Lance's handwriting. The past had been buried so 
 long and so effectively that she had hoped nothing 
 would ever revive it. Yet in a moment everything 
 was brought back by the sincerity breathed in 
 every line of her husband's pitiful appeal. He had 
 written : 
 
 "No words of mine can ever describe the torment of 
 suffering into which my cruelty to you has plunged me. 
 At last I have learned the great lesson to which I so 
 blindly shut my eyes that in all the world love is the 
 only prize worth striving for. Your love for me I 
 killed long ago ; but mine for you still lives, though God 
 knows, often enough, in the selfishness of my heart, I 
 tried to crush it out to make room for other and less 
 worthy interests. One by one, all have failed, and 
 weakly I fall back on the only hope left to me . . . that 
 you, dear, whom I so cruelly wronged, will try to find 
 it in your soul to forgive and forget. More I dare not
 
 GOD'S GIFT 303 
 
 ask but to be with you once again, just for an hour, to 
 look upon your sweet face, to gather perhaps a single 
 word of hope from your lips and to see the light of com- 
 passion in your eyes. Grant me this, though you no 
 longer love me ; give me the chance to work out my sal- 
 vation . . . and at the end let me place in your dear 
 hands all I have worth offering, a broken but repentant 
 heart. 
 
 "I send this from Marseilles, by the Transatlantique 
 Due D'Aumale, which is just leaving, but too full to 
 give me accommodation, so I shall cross by the Naviga- 
 tion Mixte steamer, the Alphonse Daudet, on Thursday. 
 Arrived at Tunis, I shall at once set inquiries on foot 
 to trace you. ..." 
 
 Saada turned to Yakoub with a weary smile. 
 
 "Thank you ; there is no answer," she said. 
 
 When the man had gone, Saada put on her coat 
 and went out. Usually she lunched at a cafe in the 
 Avenue de France, a small place kept by an Eng- 
 lishwoman, at this season of the year almost de- 
 serted. Here she could be alone to face the stupen- 
 dous shock which Lance's letter had caused. Of 
 course he would find her quite easily; long since 
 the details of her luckless marriage had become 
 common property in Tunis. 
 
 Would it be wiser to meet him or to go away? 
 She knew that her heart was dead, that long since 
 all affection for him had been consumed, leaving 
 nothing but the cold ashes of contempt behind. 
 Useless for both of them to try to revive a past 
 better forgotten.
 
 304 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 She sat down in the deserted room, waiting for 
 Mrs. Mason to appear. In the wide street with- 
 out, the double line of plane trees, stripped bare by 
 the gale, which now had raged with unabating fury 
 more than a week, waved bone-like limbs to the 
 grey sky, from which thrashed down a ceaseless 
 flood of rain. Deeper than the dull roar of the 
 wind was the far-off boom of the giant breakers 
 careering in headlong fury across the lake and 
 hurling themselves with shattering force upon the 
 concrete works of the harbour. 
 
 "Mrs. Kailsford, you've heard the dreadful 
 news?" 
 
 Saada awoke from a depressed reverie to see the 
 lady proprietor standing in the curtained doorway. 
 In her hand she carried a special edition of the 
 Depeche Twnisien. 
 
 "One of the big steamers is on fire at sea. She 
 was to have arrived early this morning. You can 
 read what little news there is while I get your lunch 
 ready. There you are . . . the Alphonse Dau* 
 det ablaze from stem to stem twenty miles north- 
 east of Ras el Abiad ; my husband thinks they'll try 
 to beach her at Porto Farina." 
 
 Saada had risen, a look of terror on her face. 
 
 "My husband is on the Alphonse Daudet," she 
 said swiftly. "I had a letter from him this 
 morning." 
 
 Mrs. Mason became instantly sympathetic. 
 
 "Then you'd better get down to the harbour. 
 They'll have news at the company's office on the
 
 GOD'S GIFT 305 
 
 quayside. At ten o'clock the ship's wireless was 
 still working. . . ." 
 
 Saada waited to hear no more, but turned into 
 the full welter of the storm. In a moment it 
 seemed the city had wakened to life, for dense 
 crowds of natives and Europeans were streaming 
 from the Avenue de Paris, the Avenue de Carthage, 
 and through the Port de France, all joining in the 
 Avenue Jules Ferry. 
 
 A motor-ambulance turned the corner of the 
 Avenue de la Kepublique and made off in the 
 direction of Melassine. Saada heard some one 
 whisper the words "Civil Hospital!" and a mo- 
 ment later understood, for between a number of 
 mounted gendarmes shrouded forms on stretchers 
 were being hurried away. 
 
 Her steps quickened to a run past the custom 
 house sheds. The Basin Principal was lined a 
 score deep, many shouting and gesticulating wildly 
 as small boats breasted the immense waves, only to 
 vanish a second later in the trough of the sea. 
 
 She heard a young American talking to an 
 English chemist. 
 
 "The Alphonse Daudet has been burned to the 
 water's edge. They tried to beach her . . . but 
 failed . . . the few survivors put off in the boats . . . 
 a good many have been saved . . . explosion ..." 
 
 She waited to hear no more, but shouldered her 
 way through the press to the company's office on 
 the quay. The harassed clerk could tell her little. 
 
 "I am sorry, madam, but we have no accurate
 
 306 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 details yet. We believe a large number of lives 
 have unfortunately been lost. The survivors are 
 now coming in. Some of them are being taken to 
 the Tunisia Palace Hotel. You might go there 
 first. Here is a list of those already sent to the 
 Civil Hospital." 
 
 Lance's name was not among them. Saada 
 turned away, sick at heart. In the hour of suffer- 
 ing all the bitterness of the past had gone. She 
 saw mangled, lifeless figures lifted from the 
 smashed boats . . . scanned each swollen, disfig- 
 ured face, and turning her back on the dreadful 
 scene, hastened to the Tunisia Palace. 
 
 In the vestibule a ship's doctor stood, his face 
 blackened and his clothes sodden. 
 
 "You have come off the Alphonse Daudet?" she 
 ventured breathlessly. 
 
 He bowed politely. 
 
 "I am one of the fortunate survivors, madam. 
 Had you a friend on board?" 
 
 "Yes Mr. Lance Kailsford," she explained. 
 
 He looked confused, and half turned away. 
 
 "Monsieur Railsford is here. He has just been 
 brought in. You must be brave, madam; there 
 is no hope of his recovery." She moved at his side 
 mechanically as he mounted the stairs. "It was 
 an act of supreme courage, madam, such as one 
 might expect from the brave English. He 
 returned to the vessel when he might have saved 
 himself to bring off a Lascar fireman. Mon
 
 GOD'S GIFT 307 
 
 Dieu! it was madness, but ver' grand . . . the 
 ship was blazing fore and aft . . . but for a poor 
 black man this rioble fellow gave his life. You 
 had better not see him yet." 
 
 She raised her face, radiant with a calm courage 
 . . . her eyes full of appeal. 
 
 "Please take me to him : he is my husband." 
 
 In the vestibule below fresh cases were being 
 brought in. French and native doctors moved 
 silently to and fro. Saada went into the big 
 room. On the tables and settees bandaged men 
 and horribly burned women writhed in agony. 
 Her glance swept the terrible picture . . . she 
 saw Lance, stripped to the waist, supported by 
 two doctors. The lacerated body was dark with 
 the scorch of flame and smoke. She went to him 
 and lifted his lifeless hand. 
 
 "It is his wife," her companion said . . . and 
 they moved aside. 
 
 "Lance !" she called. A shudder passed through 
 the discoloured face; the fixed, awful eyes made a 
 desperate effort to focus. . . . For an instant her 
 sobbing cry must have reached him, for a glimmer 
 of consciousness lit the sightless orbs, but died 
 away as the light fades from the electric wires in 
 a bulb that has been snapped out. 
 
 "Lance, I have come to you!" she cried again, 
 and dropping on her knees, wound both her arms 
 about him and drew the drooping head down to 
 her breast.
 
 308 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 Light was failing, but in some dim fashion he 
 seemed to understand, for she caught the whisper 
 of his last breath. 
 
 "To forgive?" he asked. 
 
 Out of the unfathomable wells of her great 
 heart she gave her answer, 
 
 ''Yes, dear to forgive and forget." 
 
 His lip lifted in a fleeting tortured smile . . . 
 brief, ineffable . . . the happiness of their last 
 meeting . . . and with his disfigured face hid upon 
 her bosom, his tired life passed out into the light of 
 a fuller and brighter day. 
 
 John and Saada stood together on a little ridge 
 raised by the desert winds, looking out over track- 
 less miles of sand, and in the eyes of both was the 
 light of a great happiness. A year had passed 
 since Saada's weary feet had followed Lance Bails- 
 ford to his last resting-place in the little Protestant 
 cemetery behind the Bab Carthagina of Tunis. 
 
 "You think you will be content to spend your 
 honeymoon with me in the desert?" Forrester 
 asked, looking down on the radiant, smiling face. 
 
 "Where else, dear?" Saada answered. "We shall 
 love the sun and the deep silences."' 
 
 "And the nearness of your own people." 
 
 "The land which my foster-father loved," she 
 said softly. "At least ... I shall always call him 
 my father. John ... I haven't yet told you." 
 
 "Told me what, darling?" he asked, slipping his 
 arm about her slim waist. "What is there to tell?
 
 GOD'S GIFT 309 
 
 Surely my little Arab wife has no secrets from her 
 husband?" 
 
 She laughed softly, and placed her finger on his 
 cheek. 
 
 "Yes, John dear ... I want to make a little 
 confession." She hid her flaming face against his 
 broad shoulder. "You heard what I said a mo- 
 ment ago about my foster-father?" 
 
 "You've set me wondering, little woman." 
 
 She looked up at him, while his hand caressed 
 her dark hair. 
 
 "I kept the secret . . . for you . . . even as I 
 kept it for him who is gone ... as a very pre- 
 cious wedding-present. He was too late. Will 
 you accept it, dear, my first and greatest gift to 
 you?" 
 
 She placed a little bundle of papers in his hand. 
 He stared, bewildered. 
 
 "What are they, sweetheart?" 
 
 The laugh she gave was lost under the arch of 
 the pulsing sky. 
 
 "I have told you . . . my greatest gift . . . the 
 record of my parentage. Read them, John . . . 
 and you will understand. I'm no longer your Arab 
 wife, but English through and through. Oh, I 
 knew you would be surprised !" 
 
 He turned the pages slowly over, and in a little 
 while reached out and drew her gently to him 
 again. 
 
 "A wonderful present, little Saada . . . but not 
 the 'greatest gift at all. Your love, which lifted
 
 310 A DAUGHTER OF THE SANDS 
 
 me out of the dark places and brought me into the 
 light, is far, far greater. See! the sun is setting. 
 iWe must get back to be ready at dawn to start on 
 our desert honeymoon." 
 
 THE END
 
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