Later, she came on again, but this time it was the Infant Prodigy who was the chief performer. The Master of the Ceremonies appeared in flannels, balancing a long pole on his shoulder, and up this the little figure crept inch by inch, till at last he sat on the top, a tiny spot of crimson in the glare of the lamps. His mother watched him anxiously whilst the rest of the troupe stood round looking on. At a given signal the music stopped and the boy cautiously let himself head downwards along the pole, clasping the top of it with his feet. There was a sharp intake of breath all round the tent. One small foot felt for a ring at the top of the pole, and sidled its way through it up to the ankle. Then the little creature spread himself out, only touching the supporting pole with the tip of one hand.
All this time, in the dead silence, the man kept the pole balanced, moving slightly backwards and forwards, moisture running down his face with the effort. There was an attempt at applause, but it was checked. The moment was too critical. At last the child straightened himself up again almost imperceptibly, gently drew his foot free from the ring and slid triumphantly to the ground, whilst the clapping broke out with redoubled vigour.
It was the last item on the programme and whilst the Master made a flowery French speech to the audience, the Enchantress reappeared—a cotton gown over her professional garments, and methodically went the round of the tent making a collection in a china plate. In this dress she became matter-of-fact. It was hard to connect her with the scarlet figure that had held our interest chained so short a time ago.
People began to leave, streaming out into the darkness. The artistes were clearing away the few stage properties whilst the musicians wrapped up their instruments, and turning back as I left the tent I saw the little Prodigy slipping his hand into his mother’s and trotting off to be put to bed.
The air outside struck chill after the stuffy heat of the tent. From the distance came a faint sound of native music and fireworks celebrating an Arab wedding. Hooded figures muffled in cloaks passed silently as ghosts. The sharp rustle of palm leaves made itself heard in the darkness, and clear on the night came the notes of a bugle from the military cantonment on the edge of the little town. Groups of Arabs stood about discussing the wonders of the evening with those who had not been able to get a seat, whilst small boys hung wistfully about the entrance, loth to leave the enchanted spot and to return to everyday life.
Long after the circus has left the country, and the Prodigy has grown up, there will be talk of it in the mud houses along the river bank and in the village market-places. And as the tale spreads from one hearer to another, its marvels will become ever more and more wonderful, and slimmer and more beautiful the heroine, till she and the satin-coated horses and the small boy-acrobat will take their places amongst that gallery of half-mythical figures, almost divine, of whom stories are told round flickering village fires in the dusk.