“And her relations?” I asked. “Did they feel⸺” “Haven’t an idea what they felt,” he answered curtly. “But how do you know that mademoiselle⸺” “You’ll understand at the end of the story. As they journeyed in the sun across the endless flats—for the mountains had vanished now, and nothing broke the level of the sand—mademoiselle’s gaiety went from her. Silent was the lively, chattering tongue that knew the jargon of cities, the gossip of the Plage. She was oppressed. Tahar rode close at her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection. Far before them rode the attendants, chanting deep love songs in the sun. The sound of those songs seemed like the sound of the great desert singing of its wild and savage love to the heart of mademoiselle. At first her brother-in-law and sister bantered her on her silence, but Tahar stopped them, with a curious authority. “‘The desert speaks to mademoiselle,’ he said in her hearing. ‘Let her listen.’ “He watched her continually with his huge eyes, and she did not mind his glance, though she began to feel irritated and restless under the observation of her relations. “Towards noon Tahar again described mirage. As he pointed it out he stared fixedly at mademoiselle. “The two other Parisians exclaimed that they saw forest trees, a running stream, a veritable oasis, where they longed to rest and eat their _déjeuner_. “‘And mademoiselle?’ said Tahar. ‘What does she see?’ “She was gazing into the distance. Her face was very pale, and for a moment she did not answer. Then she said: “‘I see again the Arab bearing the burden before him on the saddle. He is much clearer than yesterday. I can almost see his face⸺’ “She paused. She was trembling. “‘But I cannot see what he carries. It seems to float on the wind, like a robe, or a woman’s dress. Ah! _mon Dieu!_ how fast he rides!’ “She stared before her as if fascinated, and following with her eyes some rapidly-moving object. Suddenly she shut her eyes. “‘He’s gone!’ she said. “‘And now—mademoiselle sees?’ said Tahar. “She opened her eyes. “‘Nothing.’ “‘Yet the mirage is still there,’ he said. “‘Valérie,’ cried her sister, ‘are you mad that you see what no one else can see, and cannot see what all else see?’ “‘Am I mad, Tahar?’ she said gravely, almost timidly, to the dragoman. “And the fear of the Sahara came again upon her. “‘Mademoiselle sees what she must,’ he answered. ‘The desert speaks to the heart of mademoiselle.’