Alive with the shrieking sounds of
music, the movement and the murmur of desert humanity made it almost
solemn. This crowd of boys and men, robed in white from head to heel,
preserved a serious grace in its vivacity, suggested besides a dignified
barbarity a mingling of angel, monk and nocturnal spirit. In the
distance of the moonbeams, gliding slowly over the dusty road with
slippered feet, there was something soft and radiant in their moving
whiteness. Nearer, their pointed hoods made them monastical as a
procession stealing from a range of cells to chant a midnight mass. In
the shadowy dusk of the tiny side alleys they were like wandering ghosts
intent on unholy errands or returning to the graveyard.
On some of the balconies painted girls were leaning and smoking
cigarettes. Before each of the lighted doorways from which the shrill
noise of music came, small, intent crowds were gathered, watching the
performance that was going on inside. The robes of the Arabs brushed
against the skirts of Domini and Suzanne, and eyes stared at them from
every side with a scrutiny that was less impudent than seriously bold.
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