“No more have I,” he said. “And I believe it’s a very rare occurrence. Now mark the mirage that showed itself to mademoiselle on the first day of the desert journey of the Parisians. She saw it on the northern verge of the oasis of Sidi-Okba, late in the afternoon. As they journeyed Tahar, their dragoman—he had applied for the post, and got it by the desire of mademoiselle, who admired his lithe bearing and gorgeous aplomb—Tahar suddenly pulled up his mule, pointed with his brown hand to the horizon, and said in French:
“‘There is mirage! Look! There is the mirage of the great desert!’
“Our Parisians, filled with excitement, gazed above the pointed ears of their beasts, over the shimmering waste. There, beyond the palms of the oasis, wrapped in a mysterious haze, lay the mirage. They looked at it in silence. Then Mademoiselle cried, in her little bird’s clear voice:
“‘Mirage! But surely he’s real?’
“‘What does mademoiselle see?’ asked Tahar quickly.
“‘Why, a sort of faint landscape, through which a man—an Arab, I suppose—is riding, towards Sidi—what is it?—Sidi-Okba! He’s got something in front of him, hanging across his saddle.’
“Her relations looked at her in amazement.
“‘I only see houses standing on the edge of water,’ said her sister.
“‘And I!’ cried the husband.
“‘Houses and water,’ assented Tahar. ‘It is always so in the mirage of Sidi-Okba.’