Just then the night wind, which blew waywardly over the sands, now rising in a gust that was almost fierce, now dying away into a calm that was almost complete, failed suddenly, and she heard a frail sound which, by its very frailty, engaged all her attention. It was a reiteration of the sound which she thought she had heard as she waited outside the tent, and this time she was no longer in doubt. It was the cry of an instrument of music, a stringed instrument of some kind, plucked by demure fingers. The cry was repeated. A whimsical Eastern melody, very delicate and pathetic, crept to her from without.
It suggested to her--women.
Her hands became inert, and her fingers dropped from the tent-pegs. She thought of the other tent, of the smaller tent she had seen, standing apart near Baroudi's. Who was living in that tent?
The melody went on, running a wayward course. It might almost be a bird's song softly trilled in some desolate place of the sands, but-It died away into the night, and the night wind rose again.
Mrs. Armine got up from her knees. Her hands were trembling no longer. She no longer wished to go.
"Arrange some of those cushions for me, Baroudi," she said. "I am tired after my ride."
He had not moved from where he had been standing when she came in, but she noticed that his long pipe had dropped from his hand and was lying on the carpet.
"Where shall I put them?" he asked, gravely.
She pointed to the side of the tent which was nearest to the smaller tent.
"Against the silk, two or three cushions. Then I can lean back. That will do."
She unbuttoned her fur jacket.
"Help me!" she said.
He drew it gently off. She sat down, and pulled off her gloves. She arranged the cushions with care behind her back. Her manner was that of a woman who meant to stay where she was for a long time. She was listening intently to hear the music again, but her face did not show that she was making any effort. Her self was restored to her, and her self was a woman who in a certain world, a world where women crudely, and sometimes quite openly, battle with other women for men, had for a long time resolutely, successfully, even cruelly, held her own.
Baroudi watched her with serious eyes. He picked up his pipe and let himself down on his haunches close to where she was leaning against her cushions. The night wind blew more strongly. There was no sound from the other tent. When Mrs. Armine knew that the wind must drown that strange, frail music, even if the hidden player still carelessly made it, she said, with a sort of brutality: "And if my husband comes back to camp before my return there?"