The Figure In The Mirage | Page 4

in the distance, peevish in their insomnia, and fancied their voices were
the voices of desert demons. As she stood there she thought of the
figure in the mirage, and wondered if mirage ever rises at night--if, by
chance, she might see it now. And, while she stood wondering, far
away across the sand there floated up a silvery haze, like a veil of
spangled tissue--exquisite for a ball robe, she said long after!--and in
this haze she saw again the phantom Arab galloping upon his horse.
But now he was clear in the moon. Furiously he rode, like a thing
demented in a dream, and as he rode he looked back over his shoulder,
as if he feared pursuit. Mademoiselle could see his fierce eyes, like the
eyes of a desert eagle that stares unwinking at the glaring African sun.
He urged on his fleet horse. She could hear now the ceaseless thud of
its hoofs upon the hard sand as it drew nearer and nearer. She could see
the white foam upon its steaming flanks, and now at last she knew that
the burden which the Arab bore across his saddle and supported with
his arms was a woman. Her robe flew out upon the wind; her dark,
loose hair streamed over the breast of the horseman; her face was
hidden against his heart; but mademoiselle saw his face, uttered a cry,

and shrank back against the canvas of the tent.
"For it was the face of the Spahi who had ridden in the procession of
the Governor--of the Spahi to whom she had thrown the roses from the
balcony of Algiers.
"As she cried out the mirage faded, the Arab vanished, the thud of the
horse's hoofs died in her ears, and Tahar, the dragoman, glided round
the tent, and stood before her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like
ebon jewels.
"'Hush!' he whispered, 'mademoiselle sees the mirage?'
"Mademoiselle could not speak. She stared into the eyes of Tahar, and
hers were dilated with wonder.
"He drew nearer to her.
"'Mademoiselle has seen again the horseman and his burden.'
"She bowed her head. All things seemed dream-like to her. Tahar's
voice was low and monotonous, and sounded far away.
"'It is fate,' he said. He paused, gazing upon her.
"'In the tents they all sleep,' he murmured. 'Even the watchman sleeps,
for I have given him a powder of hashish, and hashish gives long
dreams--long dreams.'
"From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to
mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of
water.
"'Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,' he said--'shall
drink and dream.'
"He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by the
eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the hashish,
swayed, and fell forward into his arms.

"A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon,
rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle
he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all
the night beat the thunderous music of a horse's hoofs spurning the
desert sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she
no longer saw."
My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but
sat looking at me in silence.
"The Spahi?" I asked.
"Had claimed the giver of the roses."
"And Tahar?"
"The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a notable
shot."
"A strange tale," I said. "How did you come to hear it?"
"A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting
expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story
was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an
earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down."
"Told you by an Arab?"
He shook his head.
"By whom, then?"
"By a woman with a clear little bird's voice, with an angel and a devil
in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris--the grace, the
diablerie of Paris."
Light broke on me.
"By mademoiselle!" I exclaimed.

"Pardon," he answered; "by madame."
"She was married?"
"To the figure in the mirage; and she was content."
"Content!" I cried.
"Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the
twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening
across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle--instead
of a woman--slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the
desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest thing
in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?"
"Its