Ambroise wondered. About
midnight a mean-looking fellow entered and asked for him. A lady, a very
ill lady, was in a coupe at the door. He hurried out. It was Aholibah.
Her eyes were glazed and her lips black and cracked. She tried to croon,
in a hoarse voice:--
"I am the Woman of Morocco!" But her head fell on the window-sill of the
carriage. Ambroise lifted the weary head on his shoulder. His eyes were
so dry that they seemed thirsty. The old glamour gripped him. The cabman
held the reins and waited; it was an every-night occurrence for him. The
starlight could not penetrate to the Boulevard through the harsh
electric glare; and the whirring of wheels and laughter of the cafe's
guests entered the soul of Ambroise like steel nails. She opened her
eyes.
"I am that Aholibah ... a witness through waste Asia ... that the strong
men and the Captains knew ..." This line of Swinburne's was pronounced
in the purest English. Ambroise did not understand. Then followed some
rapidly uttered jargon that might have been Moorish. He soothed her, and
softly passed his hand over her rough and dishevelled hair.
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