“Yes; the Frenchwoman. I will send her to you.”
Arden was perplexed. It seemed extraordinary that in a little village in a remote and unusually lawless district of Morocco there should be a French blanchisseuse. But he made no comment, and spread out his wares upon the ground. In a few moments a woman appeared. She had the Arab face, the Arab colour. But she stood unconcernedly before Arden, and said in Arabic:
“I am the Frenchwoman. Give me the clothes you want washing.”
Arden reached behind him for the bundle. He addressed her in French, but she shook her head and carried the bundle away. Her place was taken by another, a very old, dark woman, who was accompanied by a youth carrying a closed basket.
“Pigeons,” said the old woman. “Good, fat, live pigeons.”
Arden was fairly tired of that national food by this time, and waved her away.
“Very well,” said she. She took the basket from the youth, placed it on the ground, and opened the lid. Then she clapped her hands and the pigeons flew out. As they rose into the air she laughed, and cried out in English—“One, two, three, and away!”
Arden was fairly startled.
“What words are those?” he exclaimed.
“English,” the old woman replied in Arabic. “I am the Englishwoman.”