I made up for it to myself by slipping a few pennies into the brown little hands of the children, who had finally decided that I was not likely to bite and had approached me. Delighted, they ran with them to their mother, who seized them feverishly, with a terrified side-look at her husband. Filled with pity, I slipped a silver piece into her lean hand—rather too well rewarded by the ardent kisses she showered on my hands, my shoulders, and the edge of my dress. I then asked the Arab to show me the interior of his tent. He seemed pleased at my demand, but I regretted it deeply when I beheld the dirtiness of it. Dirt was the principal furniture, together with several wooden spoons, an “aguesseau” for rolling the semolina into cous-cous, a “kess-kess” for cooking it by vapour, and a heap of terrible-looking rags. On this heap lay an indistinct form, from which came slow, painful gasps—the gasps of a departing life. Shuddering, I bent down and saw a venerable woman—so small, so wizened, so extraordinarily thin that I could not imagine how there was any life in her. She opened her eyes and turned them slowly on the Arab; and I read pitiful supplication, mingled with bitter reproach, in their cavernous depths.
The Arab looked down gloomily, and a wave of emotion swept over his hitherto impassive face.
“What is the matter with her?” I asked.
“She has not eaten for two days,” he answered.
“But why? Is she ill? Give her some milk at once. At once, do you hear?”
I felt angry at the calmness of these people in the presence of this dying woman.
“She is dying,” he said, obstinately.
“But you are doing nothing to save her,” I cried.
My husband pulled my sleeve.
“Come, come, dear,” he whispered, “you are giving yourself useless pain.”