"Never," answered Domini.
"It is the garden of oblivion," he said, still in a low voice, and
speaking with a delicate refinement that was almost mincing. "In the
desert one forgets everything; even the little heart one loves, and the
desire of one's own soul."
"How can that be?" asked Domini.
"Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more."
His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was
something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze.
"What is your name?" Domini asked.
"Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?"
"Yes, Batouch."
"I too. To-night, under the mimosa trees, I shall compose a poem. It
will be addressed to Irena, the dancing-girl. She is like the little
moon when it first comes up above the palm trees."
Just then the train from Beni-Mora ran into the station, and Domini
turned to seek her carriage. As she was coming to it she noticed, with
the pang of the selfish traveller who wishes to be undisturbed, that
a tall man, attended by an Arab porter holding a green bag, was at the
door of it and was evidently about to get in.
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