“From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of water. “‘Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,’ he said—‘shall drink and dream.’ “He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by the eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the hashish, swayed, and fell forward into his arms. “A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon, rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no longer saw.” My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but sat looking at me in silence. “The Spahi?” I asked. “Had claimed the giver of the roses.” “And Tahar?” “The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a notable shot.” “A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?” “A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down.” “Told you by an Arab?” He shook his head. “By whom, then?” “By a woman with a clear little bird’s voice, with an angel and a devil in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris—the grace, the _diablerie_ of Paris.” Light broke on me. “By mademoiselle!” I exclaimed. “Pardon,” he answered; “by madame.” “She was married?” “To the figure in the mirage; and she was content.” “Content!” I cried. “Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle—instead of a woman—slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest thing in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?” “Its heart?” I said. “Or the heart of mademoiselle?” “I give the palm to the latter.” “And I,” he answered, taking off his wide-brimmed hat—“I gave it when I saluted her as madame before the tent door, out there in the great desert.” _SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY_