Then she rises and smilingly salutes once more with her
little brown hand the Queen of the Desert, and, springing lightly
upon the back of her dromedary, grasps the reins.
Butheita's countenance now wears a serious expression. It seems she
has brought solemn thoughts with her from the goddess of the desert,
and from time to time she casts a timid glance at the prisoner, who
lies bound before her. The dromedary moves on at a uniform speed.
Those it is bearing on ward speak but little. Butheita's heart is
oppressed; the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, is thoughtful and grave.
Once Butheita raises her arm and points to some towering objects
defined sharply against the sky in the distance.
"See, stranger, see; those are the grand monuments of our kings, the
Pharaohs, the pyramids, and there lies Sakkara, where the graves of
the holy oxen are to be seen. We are almost at our journey's end.
There lies the village of Petresin. Its inhabitants still sleep, and
the doors of the huts are closed: they do not see us. That is well,
that is necessary; my father said no one must know that we are
taking you away a prisoner. Do you see that little spot on the verge
of the dessert? That is my father's tent."
Butheita patted her dromedary on the neck with her little hand,
urging it to greater speed. Like an arrow they flew across the sand
until they had reached her father's tent.
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