Weston had got up, and, like me, was hanging on Machmout’s words.
“We will go there,” he said. “Here is an opportunity of testing it. Listen a moment.”
“He is walking, walking, walking,” piped Machmout, “still walking to the moon and the grave. The moon sits no longer on the desert, but has sprung up a little way.”
I pointed out of the window.
“That at any rate is true,” I said.
Weston took the cloth out of Machmout’s hand, and the piping ceased. In a moment he stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes.
“Khalás,” he said.
“Yes, it is Khalás.”
“Did I tell you of the sitt in England?” he asked.
“Yes, oh, yes,” I answered; “thank you, little Machmout. The White Magic was very good to-night. Get you to bed.”