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Then he played once more while the moon rose over the palm gardens, and Safti, lighting his pipe of keef with tender deliberateness, remarked placidly: "He would like to come with us to Touggourt and to die there at Oreïda's feet, but his father, Said-ben-Kouïdar, wishes him to remain at Sidi-Matou and to pack dates. He is young, and must obey. Therefore he is sad."
She has houses and many palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers." A week later Safti and I were again at Sidi-Matou, on our way homeward through the desert. The moon was at the full now, and when we rode up to the Bordj the open space in front of it, between us and the village, was flooded with delicate light.
I stopped to listen, and looked round, searching the vistas between the palms. "Where does it come from?" I asked of Safti. His one eye blinked languidly. "From some gardener among the trees. All who dwell in Sidi-Matou are gardeners." The persistent flute gave forth a shower of notes that were like drops of water flung softly in our faces. "He is in love," added Safti with a slight yawn.
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