“He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by the eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the hashish, swayed, and fell forward into his arms.
“A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon, rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no longer saw.”
My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but sat looking at me in silence.
“The Spahi?” I asked.
“Had claimed the giver of the roses.”
“And Tahar?”
“The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a notable shot.”
“A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?”
“A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down.”
“Told you by an Arab?”