Between the fire and the tent she met Ouardi carrying a
tray. On it were a coffee-pot, cups, little glasses and a tall bottle of
a peculiar shape with a very thin neck and bulging sides.
"What's that, Ouardi?" she asked, touching it with her finger.
"That is an African liqueur, Madame, that you have never tasted. Batouch
told me to bring it in honour of Monsieur the officer. They call it--"
"Another surprise of Batouch's!" she interrupted gaily. "Take it in!
Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert."
He went on, and she stood for a few minutes looking at the blaze of the
fire, and at the faces lit up by it, French and Arab. The happy soldiers
were singing a French song with a chorus for the delectation of the
Arabs, who swayed to and fro, wagging their heads and smiling in an
effort to show appreciation of the barbarous music of the Roumis.
Dreary, terrible Mogar and its influences were being defied by the
wanderers halting in it. She thought of Androvsky's words about the
human will overcoming the influence of place, and a sudden desire
came to her to go as far as the tower where she had felt sad and
apprehensive, to stand in its shadow for an instant and to revel in her
happiness.
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