"She must be a Circassian," he concluded, "it is unbelievable that an English or American girl should be owned by this desert tribe!"
An old woman poked her hatchet-shaped face into that of the young girl.
"Go and dance! All these years you have been under the protection of Allah. Who is this Nazarene—that you place him above Mohammed and his saints? Go and dance. Give your spirit to the djinn! May Allah wither your budding beauty if you refuse to worship his saint in the dance!"
She seized the young girl by her thick sash and pulled her into the center. The band of ribbon that had bound her golden hair became loose; her hair poured like a flood of gold over her shoulders. She stood trembling amidst the wild dancers, some of whom, in their frenzy, were digging her with their sharp elbows.
The drum beat insistently, but the girl did not obey its urge to dance. She stood trembling, and now she raised her eyes towards us with a pleading that roused us to interfere.
General Eaton motioned to a sheik.
"We would not interrupt the dance, or offend the hospitality of this tent in any way. But that girl seems to be of our blood, and the dance is strange to her. Would it not offend the marabout in whose honor you dance to have a Nazarene take part? What is worship of the hands and feet if the heart is not submissive too? I pray you, permit the girl to withdraw."
The young Arabs cast hostile glances at us, but the sheik was good-natured and was expecting rich gifts from the general. He called the girl to him. She came quickly. He spoke to her in Arabic, and she withdrew to an alcove.
"She is an adopted daughter of our tribe," he explained.