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Updated: May 9, 2025
Last night, when Embarka had packed the jewels among Sanda's things for the secret journey, Ourïeda had kept out the stiletto in case of failure. Now it was ready to her hand, and before Sanda could reach her the point of its thin blade pressed the flesh over the heart.
Lest what the papers said should be prematurely seen by the convalescent's eyes, however, Sanda hurried back to Egypt. Max was sitting up in a reclining chair, for the first time, on the day of Sanda's return to Cairo. He knew that she had gone to France on business of some sort, but he had no idea what it was. It did not occur to him that it might have to do with his affairs.
Max, however, could not forgive Stanton for ignoring the exquisite blossom of love that might be his, and grasping instead some wild scarlet flower of the desert not fit to be touched by a hand that had pressed Sanda's little fingers. He did not know whether or not to be equally ashamed of the curiosity which made him say to Pelle that he would see the dancer; but he yielded to it.
Sanda's cheeks, which had been pale, brightened to carnation as she read; but the dancer held all eyes. The girl crumpled up the letter and palmed it again, wondering how to show it to Ourïeda, for they had not once been allowed a moment alone in each other's company since the scene with la hennena. Not that Sanda was suspected of a hand in that affair, but she might have a hand in another plot.
When the colonel returned to Algeria and his regiment Max had not yet gained enough strength to be seen and thanked for what he had done, even if DeLisle had found it compatible with his official duty to say to a deserter what was in his heart to say to Sanda's hero. And perhaps, Sanda thought, it was as well that they did not meet just then. Irrevocable things might have been spoken between them.
The light showered roses over the girls' heads and dresses, stained the snow of the roof, with its low, bubbling domes, and streaming eastward turned flat plain and far billowing dune into a sea of flame. Sanda's spirit worshipped the incredible beauty of the scene, and then flew northward to the two men whom she loved.
The Arabs on their camels came crowding round Max, who led the caravan, riding beside Sanda's mehari. "Sidi," said their leader, "this music is not of earth, for Touggourt is too distant for us to hear aught from there. It is the devil. It comes from under the dunes.
It was a long procession of men and camels bearing heavy loads, so long that the end of it had not yet come into sight behind the next sand billow; but at its head a man rode on a horse, alone, with no one at his side. Already it was too dark to see his face, but Max knew who it was. He felt the man's identity with an instinct as unerring as Sanda's.
Not loud, open warfare, but a silent battle never ceasing; and the one hope left in Sanda's heart for her own future was death in the desert. She had determined to go on, and she would go on; but blinding, blessed suns of noon might strike her dead; she might take some malarial fever in the swampy, saltpetre deserts through which the caravan must travel. There were also scorpions and vipers.
You have come across half the world, to me?" "Oh, father, yes, it is true. And always I've wanted to come." Sanda's voice caressed him. No man could have resisted her then. "You're not angry?" "Mon Dieu, no, I'm not angry, though my life is not the life for a girl. I only for a moment I thought I saw " "I know, I guessed," Sanda gently filled up his pause.
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