Raie felt like a schoolgirl out for a holiday. She had come out with the express intention of enjoying herself, and she meant to fulfil it to the letter. Outside the khan lay a solemn-looking camel; immediately she made up her mind that she must have a ride. The Arab in charge was a gentle-looking individual, with somewhat melancholy eyes. He wore both a tarbûsh and keffiyeh on his head, and his abbâ—or shawl—fell from his shoulders in graceful folds. He shrugged his shoulders when Mr. Merryweather’s servant proffered Raie’s request, and in consideration of _backsheesh_ allowed her to mount. This was easier said than done, for when the camel began to rise from the ground she was nearly thrown over his head. She clung on, however, with all the tenacity of which she was capable, and felt as if she had attained a victory when the animal set off at a jog-trot. Mr. Merryweather walked alongside in order to keep her company, and endeavoured to sustain a conversation with the Arab on the way. When the girl declared that the motion gave her a peculiar sensation, he suggested a halt, and the animal was brought to a sudden standstill. Raie was not sorry to dismount, and gave a sigh of relief when her feet touched the ground. She had no desire to repeat the experience which had been hers on the sea. Her companion paid the Arab, and sent the camel back to the khan. Then he drew Raie towards one of the fine carob-trees which abound in that district, and bade her rest beneath its shade. She settled herself comfortably on a boulder, and he flung himself down at her side. The opportunity for which he had sought had come. “Miss Emanuel,” he said suddenly, “are you fond of Heine?” The question was so unexpected that Raie glanced at him in surprise. “Do you mean the German poet?” she asked. “Yes.” The girl waxed thoughtful. “I admire his genius,” she replied, at length, “but some of his poems irritate me. He is so apt to descend from the sublime to the ridiculous, and to him absolutely nothing is sacred. He has the poet’s mind without the poet’s soul. What makes you think of Heine, though, just now?” “I was thinking of a little poem I read of his a long time ago—‘Life’s Salutations.’ It was about meeting each other on the highway of life, but having little time to greet before the postillion gives the starting signal, and we have to be off again. “‘In passing each other we nod and we greet With our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches, We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet, And speed on, despite all reproaches.’ That seems to apply to our case, does it not? We have had time to greet each other, but that is all. The signal has been given for my coach to start.” “Do you mean that you are going away?” Raie asked, with a sinking at her heart. He nodded his head. “Yes,” was his reply. “I have stayed here much longer than I intended, already. I must be in London at the beginning of next month.”