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"What is there in the mind of Monsieur which makes him ride as if he fled from an enemy?" "I know not, but he goes like a hare before the sloughi, Batouch-ben Brahim," answered Ali, gravely. Then they sent their horses on in chase of the cloud of sand towards the southwest. About four in the afternoon they reached the camp at Mogar.
Ma foi! there have been several moments in the last days when I never thought to see Mogar." Slowly he swung himself off his mule and stood up, catching on to the saddle with one hand. "F-f-f-f!" he said, pursing his lips. "I can hardly stand. Excuse me, Madame." Domini had got up. "You are tired out," she said, looking at him and his men, who had now come up, with interest. "Pretty well indeed.
"And they they wouldn't like you because they wouldn't understand you." "Let us buy our oasis," he said abruptly. "Build our African house, sell our dates and remain in the desert. I hear Batouch. It must be time to ride on to Mogar. Batouch! Batouch!" Batouch came from the courtyard of the house wiping the remains of a cous-cous from his languid lips. "Untie the horses," said Androvsky.
One day, in their wanderings, they came to a desolate place called Mogar, and camped on a sandhill looking over a vast stretch of dunes. Towards evening Androvsky descended into the plain to shoot gazelle, leaving Domini alone. While he was away a French officer, with two men of the Zouaves, rode slowly up.
She thought of Mogar once more, steadily, reviewing mentally with the renewed sharpness of intellect that had returned to her, brought by contact with the city all that had passed there, as she never reviewed it before. It had been a strange episode. She began to walk slowly up and down on the sand before the tent. Ouardi came to walk with her, but she sent him away.
They had been living for weeks in the midst of vastness, and had become accustomed to see stretched out around them immense tracts of land melting away into far blue distances, but this view from Mogar made them catch their breath and stiffed their pulses. It was gigantic.
He set it down by his coffee-cup. "The fact is, Madame but you know nothing about this liqueur?" "No, nothing. What is it?" Her curiosity was roused by his hesitation, his words, but still more by a certain gravity which had come into his face. "Well, this liqueur comes from the Trappist monastery of El-Largani." "The monks' liqueur!" she exclaimed. And instantly she thought of Mogar.
The happy soldiers were singing a French song with a chorus for the delectation of the Arabs, who swayed to and fro, wagging their heads and smiling in an effort to show appreciation of the barbarous music of the Roumis. Dreary, terrible Mogar and its influences were being defied by the wanderers halting in it.
They had halted for the noonday rest at a place called Sidi-Hamdam, and in the afternoon were going to ride on to a Bordj called Mogar, where they meant to stay two or three days, as Batouch had told them it was a good halting place, and near to haunts of the gazelle.
Before doing so, however, something moved her to ask him: "That African liqueur, Ouardi you remember that you brought to the tent at Mogar have we any more of it?" "The monk's liqueur, Madame?" "What do you mean monk's liqueur?" "It was invented by a monk, Madame, and is sold by the monks of El-Largani." "Oh! Have we any more of it?"
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