“He is in love,” added Safti with a slight yawn.
“How do you know?”
“When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe. That is what they say in the Sahara.”
“And you think he is alone under some palm-tree playing for himself?”
“Yes; he is quite alone. If he is much in love he will play all day, and, perhaps, all night too.”
“But she cannot hear him.”
“That does not matter. He plays for his own heart, and his own heart can hear.”
I listened. Since Safti had spoken the music meant more to me. I tried to read the player’s heart in the endless song it made. Trills, twitterings, grace notes, little runs upward ending in the air—surely it was a boy’s heart, and not unhappy.
“It is coming nearer,” I said.
“Yes. Ah, it is Smaïn!”