“Madame has seen the desert?” he asked.
“Never,” answered Domini.
“It is the garden of oblivion,” he said, still in a low voice, and speaking with a delicate refinement that was almost mincing. “In the desert one forgets everything; even the little heart one loves, and the desire of one’s own soul.”
“How can that be?” asked Domini.
“Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more.”
His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze.
“What is your name?” Domini asked.
“Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?”
“Yes, Batouch.”
“I too. To-night, under the mimosa trees, I shall compose a poem. It will be addressed to Irena, the dancing-girl. She is like the little moon when it first comes up above the palm trees.”