Sister Teresa

ight of an Arab, or one whom he thought was an

u know

hun

d he had travelled hundreds of mile

or three days ag

from Tunis, in search of him! We have passed each other in the desert," he said, looking round the great pla

ieur Béclère asked him to stay

t the gazell

very kind

sence, that he had not had time to give a thought to the fact that the conversation was being carried on in French. Now the thought suddenly came into his mind th

ère that at first he had mistaken him for an Arab. "Only your shoulders are broader, and you are

European spring and t

ays dress a

rty-one years, ever since I wa

in an

ated for myself. The discovery of a Roman well enab

overy of a

the verge of hearing the most interesting things about underground lakes only twenty

th grey, the eyes deep in the head, and of an acrid blackness like an Arab's; the long, thin nose like an Arab's-a face which could have had lit

speak Arabic

nt." And Béclère explained that there was no writing done in the dialects. When an Ar

n himself and Monsieur Béclère, who would instruct him on all the points which he was interested i

ted oranges

ve nearly all our own vegetables-hari

here are no

ght of a house, half Oriental, half European. He admired the flat roofs and the domes, which he felt sure rose above darkened rooms, whe

e in keeping. He liked incongruities, being an inveterate romancist and only a bedouin by caprice. One appreciates sheets after months of pilgrimage, and one appreciates a good meal after having eaten nothing for a long while better than sand-goose roasted at the camp fire. More than the pleasure of the table was the pleasure of conversation with one speaking in his native language. Béclère's mind interested him; it was so steady, it looked towards one point always. That was his impression when he left his host after a talk lasting

faint perfume. The roses were already in blossom, and through an opening in the ilex-trees he caught sight of a meadow overflowing with shadow, the shadow of trees and clouds, and of goats too, for there was a herd feeding and trying to escape from the shepherd (a young man wearing a white bournous and a red felt cap) towards the garden, where there were bushes. On the left, amid a group of palms, were the stables, and Owen thought of his horse feeding and resting after his long journey. And there were Béclère's horses too. Owen had not seen them yet; nor had he

ined and intelligent-w

no

in the world more beautiful than the moving of shadows of trees and clouds over young grass, and nothing more beautiful than a young shepherd playing a flute: only one

coming towards him. "She will follow this path to the house, and I shall see her better." A little in front of the ilex-trees she stopped to look back upon the shepherd, leaning

ready a woman, not more than twelve or thirteen at the very most; the sun ripens them quickly." This child recalled a dream which he had let drop in Tunis-a dream that he might go into the desert and find an Arab maiden

et Evelyn he had loved no other. Why did he love her? How was it he could not put her out of his mind? Why couldn't he accept an Arab girl-Béclère's girl? She was younger and

sing for having left him so long alone.... He talked to him about the beauty o

courte embellie, mais profitons en,"

the one you were

are many handsome girls here. The Arab race is beautiful,

he movement, extraordinarily voluptuous, of his neck and head. He played on, his breath coming at times so feebly that there was hardly any sound at all, at other times awaking music loud and imperative; and the two men stood listening, for how many minutes they did not know, but for what seemed to them a long while. Their reverie stopped when the music

ike to see m

asis, or as much as they could see of it

it is but a small island, about

ny as

learned, the Arabs are divided into two classes-the agricultural and the nomadic. We have to be in sufficient numbers to save ou

me as existed in Engla

races of which still survived in the nineties- resembled very much the border forays for which Northumberland is still famous; and, walking through the pa

gain presently, and the sta

race was ever as great a race as we we

hey are outcasts of our civilisation-but what noble outcasts! That fellow, he is old, and without a corner, perhaps, where to lay his head, but he walks magnificently in his ragged bournous. He is poor, but

surprise, and Owen, thinki

from Amsterdam painted by Rembrandt, or a Jew from P

d on remaining the noble outcast which you admire, he would not have survived the Red Indian many hundreds of years. I don't con

t," Owen answered, "I

was in the plain below, some of it ran up the steep

se to build up suc

street in which a camel could turn round, hardly any windows, and the doors always half closed. They are still suspicious of us and an

of your race-no one is more sympathetic to you than I am-yet it is impossible not to se

in the Soudan I should be well received-and what other European could say as much? There must be something of the Arab in me, otherwise I sh

t first

ow therefore is it possible to speak of race characteristics? Still, if one may differentiate at all between the French and English races (but is there a French and English race?) we know there is a negro race because it is black- however, if there be any difference between England and France, the difference

tween Béclère and this girl. Béclère as a lover appeared to him anomalous and disparate-that is how Béclère would word it himself, but these pedants were very often serious sensualists. We easily associate conventional morality with red-tapeism, for it seems impossible to believe that the stodgy girl who spends

cause Béclère had chosen a beautiful girl to love he was susceptible to artistic influences, sculpture excepted. Of the other arts Owen felt instinctively that Béclère knew nothing; indeed, yester eveni

es at

and for some musical assistance, for while waiting for the eagles to arrive he spent his time thinking how he might write the songs he heard every morning among the palm-trees; written down they did not seem nearly as original as they did on the lips, and Owen

Béclère was answerable for his suffering, and he thought how he must go away and travel again; only open solitude and wandering with rough men could still his pain; primitive Nature was the one balm.... That fellow Tahar-why did he delay? Owen thought of the eagles, the awful bird pursuing the fleeting deer, and himself riding in pursuit. This was

s of Ta

livered, and where we bring news of ourselves, and where no news is understood t

rare at this se

morrow or the day after... but I see you are i

nly a sedentary life was impossible to

f the wanderer in you, f

it is, I suppose, mere restlessness." A

this was not so-there was nothing. Even when he strained his eyes Owen could not distinguish which was sand, which was earth, which was stone, even the colour of the emptiness was undecided. Was it dun? Was it tawny? Striving to express himself, Owen could find nothing more explicit to say than that the colour of the desert was the colour of emptiness, and they sat down trying to talk of falconry. But it was impossible to talk in front of this tra

all events, warm,"

ly. Nowhere on earth only in the desert, is there silence; even in the tomb there are worms, but in some parts of the desert there are not even worms, the body dries into dust without decaying. Owen imagined the resignation of the wanderer who finds no water at the spring, and lies down to die amid the mighty indifference of sterile Nature; and breaking the silence, somewhat against his will, he communicated his thoughts to Béclère, that an unhappy man who dare not take his life could not do better than to lose himself in the desert. Death would come easily, for seeing nothing in front of him but an empty horizon, nothing above him but a blank sky, and for a little shelter a sand dune, which the wind created yesterday and will uncreate to-morrow he would come to understand all that he need know regarding h

se, but government would b

is able to define their meaning. Liberty he instanced as a word around which poems have been written, "yet no poet could tell what he was writing about; at best we can only say of l

think one knows nothing, and life, l

with patience and more perfect administration, &c. But Béclère was thinking nothing of the kind; he was wondering what sort of reason could have sent Owen out of England. Some desperate love

sed him in the desert we never

smiled. "So you think we shall never meet again, and that we

f you come to the dese

did not think it necessary to answer. "But i

g; and after our hunting I hope to induce you to stop some while longer. You see, you haven't seen the desert; the desert isn't the desert in spring. To see the desert you will have to stop till July. This