"If you could see it," he said impulsively, "you’d understand then all that the first glimpse of it meant to me. It’s as dear to me now as it was then. It was Farquharson’s first voyage. We got there early one morning, soon after dawn. Our bagahalow drew in to the shore as slowly and rhythmically as a gondola. There was light and colour everywhere. Bamboo skiffs, their decks flush with the sides, floated by, steered by negro slaves, singing. The oil of their skins gleamed like polish. The whole scene——" He stopped, seeking for the right expression. "It throbbed with the sunlight. Naked boys near the shore were diving into the water, not for pennies as they do in Madeira, but to catch shining fish in their hands, or in bright nets. A herd of little black babies with big stomachs were rolling over and over in the lemon-coloured sands, under the charge of atoms of three and four years old, twirling tops made out of whelk shells." "For nobody knew what the bagahalow was bringing," said Evelyn softly. "Unconscious, all," said Calvert grimly. "That was what touched me—and their patience. On the shore a group of slaves stood chained together; they had unhealed wheals across their shoulders, and the fetters had cut into their arms and made festering sores. I’ve lived too long out in the East to call black men my brothers, but injustice sticks in my gorge. All the voyage I’d been digesting a volume of evidence as to the Sheikh’s ways of dealing with offenders." He knocked the ashes off his cigarette with care. Lady Ennly, more accustomed to the society of men than women, allowed her guests to smoke in the drawing-room. "Well, that’s not pretty, and the scenery was," he said. "I can see it all now. A hill like a tower standing over five hundred feet high faced us, and dotted all over the islands were groups of Wanabi mosques with minarets. At the base of the hill there were the remains of the old capital, a white stone city, so brilliant in the sunshine that we had to shade our eyes. But everything was brilliant. Taornian sportsmen hunting gazelle in the distance, I remember, were riding horses with gold and crimson trappings, and in the east some women, unconscious of our field-glasses, had pushed back their masks; they carried baskets of citrons on their heads, and wore upper garments rather like red chemises, with flapping orange-coloured trousers. But all the colour concentrated in the gardens; hibiscus, pomegranates, plumbago, every tropical fruit and flower almost that you can think of grew in profusion." Madame de Mirelle was singing again, a Bedouin love song this time. "They were chanting something not unlike that song she’s singing," said Calvert, jerking his broad thumb in the direction of the music-room. "It had a sort of droning note—pathetic almost. I suppose a sentimental man would have taken it as a call ... it meant a lot to me somehow."