But it was her eyes that took your breath away, and she was perfectly aware of it; she used them as the desert does all its weapons, frankly and without reluctance, sparing no consideration for the weak—rather looking for weakness to take advantage of it. They were wise—dark, deadly wise—alight with youth, and yet amazingly acquainted with all evil that is older than the world. She was obviously not in the least afraid of us.
"You are from El-Maan?" asked de Crespigny, and she nodded.
"Did you come all this way alone?"
"No woman travels the desert alone."
"Tell me how you got here."
"You know how I got here. I came with a caravan that carried wheat—the wife of the sheikh of the caravan consenting."
She spoke the clean concrete Arabic of the desert, that has a distinct word for everything, and for every phase of everything —another speech altogether from the jargon of the towns.
"Are they friends of yours?"
"Who travels with enemies?"
"Did you know them, I mean, before you came with them?"