"You see," he said, "we skirt these rocks and then we shall ride
through the village. One can very well imagine it has been the same
always."
They entered the little town. The streets were extremely narrow and the
dark houses gave an air of mystery--a speculation--what could be going
on behind those closed shutters? Here and there a straight blue-clad
figure slunk away round a corner. There was a deep silence and the
moonlight made the shadows sharp as a knife. Then a shaft of red light
would shoot from some strange low hovel as they passed, and they could
see inside a circle of Arab Bedouins crouching over a fire. There
seemed no hilarity, their faces were solemn as the grave.
Presently, in the narrowest and darkest street, there was a sound of
tom-toms, strains of weird music and voices, and through the chinks of
the half-opened shutters light streamed across the road--while a small
crowd of Arabs were grouped about the gate in the wall holding donkeys
and a camel.
"A wedding," said the young man. "They have escorted the bride. What
pleasure to raise a veil and see a black face! But each one to his
taste."
Tamara looked up at the window. She wondered what could be happening
within--were the other wives there as well? She would have liked to
have asked.
The young man saw her hesitation and said laconically-"Well?"
"They are having a party," Tamara replied, with lame obviousness.
"Of course," said the young man. "Weddings and funerals--equally good
occasions for company. They are so wise they leave all to fate; they do
not tear their eyes out for something they cannot have--and fight after
disappointment. They are philosophers, these Arabs."
The little crowd round the gate now barred the road, half good
humoredly, half with menace.
"So, so," said the young man, riding in front. Then he laughed, and
putting his hand in his pocket, brought out a quantity of silver and
flung it among them with merry words in Arabic, while he pointed to the
windows of the house.
Then he seized the bridle of Tamara's camel and started his horse
forward. The crowd smiled now and began scrambling for the baksheesh,
and so they got through in peace.
Neither spoke until they were in a silent lane again.
"Sometimes they can be quite disagreeable," he said, "but it is amusing
to see it all. The Sheikh lives here--he fancies the pyramids belong to
him, just as the Khedive fancies all Egypt is his--life is mostly
imagination."