A whiteness crept up somewhere behind the night. Soon, with the vagueness and the ceaseless jogging, she fell asleep, and awoke to find herself in a plain, somewhat cup-shaped, rimmed with jagged rocks. Something gaunt and monstrous, which appeared writhing, yet was still, stood in the way against them. It was the tree.
With a thankful heart she slid down from off the bruising saddle. She took from her bosom the strip of Alia’s raiment and gave it to Mâs, who was tall and could reach the branches.
“It is finished,” he said presently, with satisfaction.
Light increased with every minute. Mâs, having put out the lantern, withdrew from her and went and knelt upon the ground, his left shoulder toward the dawn. But Fatmeh, sitting huddled beneath the magic tree, knew not, nor cared to know, what he was doing. She wept in repentance of her great audacity.
She was aroused by a sound unexpected and terrible—the gallop of many steeds. The noise drew near apace. A voice cried:
“Halt at the tree and rest.”
At that she flung herself face downward upon the ground and knew no more, until a conversation arose so close to her that it was matter for wonder how the speakers escaped contact with her body.
“It is a Bedawi, I say.”
“It is some beast.”