“Then it is useless to——”
“It is very useless. It is as useless as to try to count the grains of the sand.”
I said no more.
Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani smiled once more, and beckoned to a negro attendant, who ran with a musical box, one of the gifts of the faithful.
“This comes from Paris,” he said, with a spreading complacence.
Then there was within the box a sounding click, and there stole forth a tinkling of Auber’s music to Masaniello, “Come o’er the moonlit sea!”