Under the desert stars | Project Gutenberg

He had tried to woo sleep in every known way, but in vain. In his mind’s eye lurked the face of the girl he knew he loved better than anything on this earth, and through his brain whirled her promise to give anything a woman could offer to the man who could save her home from destruction.

Sana had told him, the night before, that every morning it was her custom to ride on horseback to the not far distant Lake Faguibi. So Carl inquired the way of the hotel keeper.

A few miles of brisk walking and he was at the lake. Looking around, and seeing no one, he sat down in a secluded spot, thinking of Sana and his plan to flood the Sahara.

Time passed and Sana not yet coming into vision, he took his binoculars from their case and adjusting them, swept the surrounding country with his gaze. Looking over the waters of the lake, he noticed, not far from shore, a bather, enjoying a morning plunge. Focusing his glasses, he saw it was Sana, swimming, unhampered by even a bathing suit, in the blue-green water.

Not wishing to spy on her he put down his glasses, to while away the time with his pipe, until she should have finished with her swim and had resumed her attire.

After a time he again swung his glasses in the direction in which he had last seen her. She was no longer in the water. Leveling his binoculars on the shore, he scrutinized the scene closely. Ah! There she was. She was sitting on a stone behind some shrubbery, with only her legs to be seen below the foliage. She had evidently been out of the water for some time for he noticed that she was dressed.

As he watched he saw a large butterfly alight on her left knee, moving undisturbed toward the top of her stocking. Sana was perhaps putting a finishing touch to her hair, for her hands were not to be seen. At any rate the butterfly resumed his progress without fear.

That was all Carl could see and he studied the scene for a while as he would have meditated on a work of art. Surely the gods had given her beauty.

That was all Carl could see

That was all Carl could see and he studied the scene for a while as he would have meditated on a work of art. Surely the gods had given her beauty.

Putting his glasses aside, he fell into a reverie. Full well did he realize that Sana was a woman of exceptional beauty and passion, whose enchantments could enslave and humiliate the proudest and crush the mightiest. Was she aware of it? He did not know. But if she was, why did she bury herself here in the burning sands? She had a knowledge of love and life, and Carl was certain she was anything but lukewarm.

He gave her the benefit of the doubt, making up his mind at the same time that he would do his best to induce her to marry him and go to New York with him.

How his friends would envy him, especially after he had remained a bachelor for so long a time. During the long years many a woman had tried to weave about him the net of love. There had been a time when he was legitimate prey to all kinds of cheats and vamps, but his experiences with them had taught him the cold calculating ways of the “gold digger” and he had resolved never again to play “Santa Claus.”

Carl, while having enjoyed life, became a man of reserve and had never been anxious to be led to the slaughter at the altar of matrimony. He did not want to be a husband on paper only. He also knew that man might come too late, but woman never. But he was not a foolish boy who wrote letters to a smart girl, who saved them with a definite object in view. He knew, too, that passionate love is the source of little pleasure and of much suffering.

Passion he once called evil, but now planted in his heart it became virtue and joy. He and she would be well matched. Carl had found his ideal.

Observations covering many years had taught him that most men are fools so far as women are concerned and that women are the most dangerous playthings God ever devised. But, he reasoned, this was generally caused by man’s own faults.

The favor Sana would win, as his wife, among his friends he pictured in the brightest colors.

It did occur to him that Sana, with feminine instinct, and so bewitching and beautiful a siren, could easily turn his vision of paradise into real hell, after she had brought him through a maelstrom of mad passion, which she would unquestionably arouse after having realized her full powers. “For woman, nothing is impossible” used to be a saying of his. But now, no such thoughts entered his head. He was too much in love!

This time he was sure of it. There had been times in his life when he had thought himself in love, but luckily he realized the true state of affairs before too late. How much sorrow and unhappiness could be spared us mortals if we could but see what the future will bring.

At that time he was sure he loved a girl, Dorinda, a young cloak model. He had taken lodgings temporarily in a rooming house in New York, and it so happened that Dorinda had the room over him. He had met her casually and they had taken a great liking for each other.

Dorinda was of the distinct flapper type, pretty to be sure, a good dresser, but a girl without much sense. Her one real ability, he now knew, was her art of weeping. You know the sort. The girl who crying bitterly relates her hard luck stories to arouse your sympathy and generosity. Resolved though he was against this very sort of thing, Carl like most men proved an easy, and perhaps willing, victim.

That she came home at all hours of the morning or entertained men in her rooms until late into the night did not trouble Carl. His faith told him it was all right.

Came an evening when he took her to dinner, as he had done quite regularly for some time. Dorinda leaning across the table said softly, tears in her voice, “Carl, I have wanted to talk to you of this for a long time. You know that I have taken friends to my room in the evening. I should not have done it, but I did not know better. I was wrong, but I did no wrong,” and taking his hand in hers, she pleaded, “Tell me that you believe me,” and when he assured her of his belief, Dorinda pressed his hand, and with a trembling voice whispered, “Thank you, Carl. I feel much better.”

She was relieved, but not Carl. He made her promise that she would not be so foolish in the future. And to all appearances she kept her promise.

Returning from a short business trip, however, Carl heard voices overhead until well into the morning. The following day he reminded Dorinda of her promise, but in a huff she left him without a word of explanation.

For some time they saw nothing of each other. But one evening she came to his door with an apology on her lips. And Carl, fool-like, accepted the apology. Immediately she launched into a recital of intimacy, concerning the trouble a supposed girl friend had gotten in. Carl listened quite attentively it is true, but while listening put two and two together.

But if it had not been for a few remarks between the girl and the landlady, overheard by him on his way to business, he never would have known the truth. He realized then his narrow escape. Suppose he had asked her to marry him, as he had contemplated for so long a time?

Now, Sana had crossed his path. But Sana, he knew and rightly so, was not Dorinda.

He waited until she had stepped from behind the bushes that had hidden her while dressing, before he made his presence known.

“Just taking a morning stroll to better enjoy my pipe,” lying it is true, but he must not rush matters.

“It is rather a pleasant surprise to find you here at the beach. We are generally alone here.”

“Yes,” she retorted, with a laugh, pointing to her handsome white Arab that stood champing at its bit a few yards away.

Sana made a move as if to go away, when Carl asked, “Are you in a hurry, or did I disturb you?”

Carl, looking at her closely, “Do you know, I have been thinking quite a great deal of you since last evening. In fact you caused me a sleepless night—although it was quite pleasant at that.”

Sana looked straight into his beaming eyes. A smile played on her delicate lips.

“Is that possible, with all your American girls—your alluring New York flappers?”

“But if I kept you awake, how much must all those American girls keep you awake? Do you ever get much sleep? You know, I heard that New York girls are quite capable of keeping men awake.”

“But, my dear,” interrupted Carl, “New York is not America; you cannot judge America by New York.”

“Are you serious? Why, I thought New York was typical of what is American. Does not New York set the pace for the entire country, and does not the whole country fall in line, eager to do anything that is approved by New York?”

“More than that. The other cities copy New York’s buildings, her modes, her manners. Look at the flapper of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Why all America is copying her, with her bobbed hair, short skirts, generously rolled down stockings, lip sticks, powder box and cigarettes.”

“The trouble is that too many of your women are just make believe, fata morganas. Your New York girl is an illusion—an artist and a painter. She carries her repair shop continually with her. Peep into her hand bag and you will find rouge, powder puff, lip stick, eye-brow pencil, nail file, chewing gum, matches and a key.”

This Carl could not deny. He knew it was so, but, as if to himself, he continued the topic, with “The use of cosmetics is a necessity to most of our girls. They do not have the same complexion as have Swedish or German girls, for instance, and they must resort to the artificial. But it is interesting, and sometime quite amusing to observe how our girls apply the art of make-believe. Of course, all are not experts. One will often find that on a round face the rouge has been applied to the center of the cheek and the hair fluffed out at the sides. It would have been better to have rouged up and down the cheek bones with the hair drawn closely to the head. In that way, an appearance of slimness would have been obtained. On the other hand, one notices hollow cheeks without rouge and a closely drawn coiffeur. Had the hollows been rounded out with rouge and the hair fluffed out that face would have been really attractive.

“But as a rule, they know their little game. Some of them go to the extent of applying a touch of rouge against the inner bridge of the nose and on the ear lobes to give the effect of transparency.

“Take the girl with the so-called pug nose. She, as a rule, experiences great difficulty in making that nose fit in with the rest of her face. But it could easily be done. A straight narrow line of face powder along the nasal ridge, acting as sort of high light, would give prominence to the nose.

“The whole matter of make-up can be compared to an artist putting a finishing touch to a picture. If he knows his art a few deft touches of the brush creates harmony and beauty—if he doesn’t—well, just another daub.”

“Yes,” Sana broke in, “but make-up is not the only kind of cleverness for which your American girls are admired. Take the matter of dress. Although you have girls with hair of all shades, black, brown, auburn, blonde—all seem to know what color of hat, dress, shoes and stockings to choose. The brunettes know how to pick yellow and orange and the blondes light blues.”

“I have often noticed that, too. In that they are adept. Too much so, perhaps, when one realizes that a good many of them spend every cent they earn just to match the outfit. Much of it, to a thinking person, is sheer waste. Some have a dress mania; they are the least part of themselves, they become manikins, of no greater value than their dresses.

“And the time they spend on their eye-brows and lashes to give better expression to their eyes! Ye Gods! Right in my own office at home it was so noticeable that I have been working on a plan to change the color of the eyes. You know, with some people, the color of the eye changes temporarily, due to internal feeling, and with this in mind I believe I can perfect a plan. Think of the time it would save you girls.”

“Change the color of the eyes?” Sana was amazed. “Do you mean to say that, for instance, light blue or grayish eyes could be made deep blue?”

“Yes, I think so. I have experimented with other subjects and it worked. I am positive it can be applied to women’s eyes—but it would be a slow process. Don’t they change the color of cut flowers?”

Sana retorted, an impish look coming into her eyes, “Oh, I see. You want your fair subject to stand overnight with her feet in ink.”

“But tell me, how it is that you, a man and an engineer are so interested in feminine matters? I suppose you change your sweetheart as often as you do your tie, and that you have a large assortment of ties.”

To which Carl made no response, so Sana, with a gay laugh, continued “Your notebook must look like a harem directory.”

Carl’s retort “Nothing doing” was snappy and Sana hastened to sooth him with “Please do not misunderstand me. But I’m curious to know how it is you know so much about what women wear and use. Isn’t it rather strange?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To a large extent it has always been rather an impersonal proposition—sort of big brother like, you know. The girls would come to me with all sorts of questions regarding beauty, clothes, etc., and because I wanted to tell them my true viewpoint, it was natural that I should take an interest in them and their methods. To be frank I learned, too, that even the deposit from a lip stick does not taste so very bad.”

Sana, glancing at Carl from the corner of her eyes, “I suppose you discovered that at a very early age.”

“Yes, you are right. I came home from school one day with the imprint of a pair of cupid’s bows on my cheek, much to the merriment of my sister. And those ‘bows’ weren’t left there by a city girl, either. She was a country lass, whose parents had sent her to school in New York.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It’s all a question of viewpoint. In fact it was just such misunderstanding that changed my career. I wanted to be an artist—a painter and sculptor. I had a great liking for that and a certain amount of talent. But my parents, misunderstanding my fondness for the feminine sex, talked me out of it. They were sure I would never succeed as an artist—my time, they said, would be more occupied with my models than with my brush. Perhaps they were right, one never can tell.”

“Well, one can easily see that you are fond of beauty and harmony—as for the rest, well, I can tell.”

“Yes. My father taught me character reading. Besides my mother showed me how to read the palm.”

Carl stretched forth his hand to have her read the lines, but Sana changed the subject: “But we are drifting away from our topic—comparing the New York girl with others. Comparing them with girls of other American cities they are found to be much alike. But when you compare her with a European girl—ah, then you see the difference.”

“First of all, take the French girl. She is a natural charmer with a lovely body. She knows how to attract male companions, gives them precisely what they desire and then applies her knowledge and ambition to controlling the male. That she does is well known. That is the Parisienne. France like all countries has a great variety of women. She has the country girl and the city girl, and if a comparison is to be made it must be between the country girl of France and the country lass of America, between the Parisienne and the New Yorker.

“Then consider the English, or rather the Anglo-Saxon women. Their beauty is marred by the largeness of the features. Their feet are also large. The English woman, as records show, is at the top in the average size of shoes. She is there with number seven and a half; American women, with number seven, come second; German, six and a half; France, six; Spain, five and a half, and South America with number five. As your country is made up of all nationalities, the majority of them are German, then the Irish and thirdly English, it is but logical that the German element in your country caused the reduction—giving your women a number seven shoe as the average size. The limbs and features of English women are angular, rawboned so to speak. They are loose-fleshed and their dress—frightful. While there are, of course, quite a few exceptions, they, on the most part, cannot stand inspection.

“On the other hand, there is the German girl. People are apt to decry them by comparing the country girl of Germany with the city girl of other countries. I am sure that you, an American, will admit that you were most impressed with the musical voices of the women, their long silky hair and fine complexions. In those respects she cannot be compared with the women of any other country. The women as a rule are modest, orderly and home-loving. What she knows, she knows thoroughly, and she will not argue with you on a subject she does not understand. In some countries it is just the contrary. If she has the money and feels like dressing, she does not overdress. But as a rule the average German girl is not well dressed. That is where the American girl has the great advantage.

“The Spanish and Russian women have their own points of attraction. It has been said that the women of Spain have the loveliest arms and shoulders. I agree to that. It is also true of the refined Russian woman. The average American girl has slim arms, fashioned much after those of her Anglo-Saxon sisters. Her shoulders, however, are more apt to be round and fleshy, whereas those of the Spanish and Russian women are flat. The Russian women, too, have the faculty of mastering languages, something that cannot be said of the average Anglo-Saxon.

“The Italian girl blooms and fades early. When in full bloom she is lovely, but the beauty seldom lasts.

“But to get back to your American girl. Regardless of what might be said to the contrary she is superior to all in many ways. She is well dressed, though at times underdressed. Either way, though, she spends a great deal of time and money on clothes.

“She paints, as you say, like an artist and as in no other place on the globe. Her coiffure is always neat and in fine trim. She is free to talk on things that interest her and in that respect cannot be compared with her hypocritical Anglo-Saxon sister. She is independent and knows how to help herself out of difficulties. She is a great charmer of men, but, as your divorce records show, she does not seem to know how to hold their affections.

“Of course, one cannot expect all the good qualities in one set of women. As a rule, however, the American woman is superior to many.

“Take the American stage, for instance. No other country has so many beautiful girls on the stage. Of course, it is true that they are selected from all over the country and are of different nationalities, but they are essentially American.

“All in all, the American woman is to be admired. Her style, grace and freedom of movement cannot be found elsewhere. There is no doubt but what most of her good examples are to be found in New York. The most attractive ones seem to concentrate in New York.

“But the trouble is that contact with men makes the American woman more or less mercenary. That, of course, is the man’s fault. You American men are too apt to think of life as a mere matter of dollars and cents, and it is only natural that your women, hearing that doctrine preached from early morning to late at night, should in turn become of the same mind.”

Carl had no intention of arguing. He realized that Sana had overlooked certain phases of American life—he saw, too, that she did not speak of the American woman as being high-strung, stubborn and cranky at times, and that a great many of them never know what they want.

His words, therefore, did not betray his thoughts. “Yes, I believe you are right. I admire your knowledge. But, please do not compare New York with our other cities. New York is not America, and never will be.”

“But what, then, is America? In Chicago, Cleveland, Denver or any large American city you are told that these respective cities do not represent the life and customs of the United States. Where, then, will you find the true American?”

Carl shrugged his shoulders, replying, “You can search me. But America cannot be judged by the individual or by any group of individuals. America is the melting pot of the world. All nations, all creeds enter into the life of America. The nation can only be judged as a nation. The national spirit is the thing.”

“You have got me there. On that point I cannot argue. It is true that hypocrisy enters there. And hypocrisy is the worst enemy a nation can have within its borders. In the long run it leads to the destruction of a nation as a great nation. Incalculable good would be rendered a people if they could only be made to understand and realize the dangers of hypocrisy.”

“I can only speak from a nonpartisan point of view. I have never indulged to a great extent, so the law had no personal effect on me. Theoretically the country is as dry as the desert sands—practically speaking it is as wet as it ever was. However, to get a drink one must either go to another country or be a law breaker in his own country. It is quite obvious that all desiring a drink cannot travel to a foreign land, so the law is broken.

“Of course, those who can afford to do so, go to Cuba or Europe, and there, like your camels of the desert, they fill themselves with the wine and beer of Germany, the cognac and champagne of France, the brandies and whiskies of England, to tide them over the return.”

“Oh, dear, you are joking. It is really not as bad as that, is it? But you know, when I was in New York, I was given several recipes for the making of home brews and wines. Seems as if the art of brewing is becoming one of the greatest American accomplishments. I brought the recipes home with me,” laughing lightly. “Some day the Sahara may get really dry and then I could make use of the formulas. Of course, I suppose I could, like your truly patriotic Americans, indulge in water only. I used to think that water was for ablution only, but it seems that you Americans have discovered another use for it.”

“Yes, and the ones who fostered the idea should get an iron cross pinned on them, or, they should at least receive the Nobel Prize as a reward for taking away the personal liberties of a people and making a crowd of hypocritical law breakers of them. The part that hurts is that the people had no say in the matter, whether they liked it or not. Yet the people are the builders of the nation—the ones who have contributed to its greatness.”

“Speaking of the contributions to a nation, what struck me most forcibly in your country was the uniformity and monotony in every city and town I visited. That is, with a rare exception.”

“My friend Mr. O’Brien had to make a business trip to Bethlehem in Pennsylvania, so he took his wife and myself with him in his car. We passed through a number of New Jersey and Pennsylvania cities and towns, and in the evening he took us to a great county fair in Allentown, a city adjoining Bethlehem. It was there that I found the exception to the rule so far as American cities are concerned. Allentown certainly was different.

“Never before had I seen streets so well and so uniformly lighted—even very much better than your own Fifth Avenue in New York. Even Europe can boast of nothing of the like. There was a touch of the artist that appealed very much to me, and I believe to all visitors to that town. That is, the lamp posts have, near the lamp, large bowls that are always kept filled with differently colored flowers and trailing vines in summer, and evergreens, I understand, in winter.

“In the middle of the public square was a great granite monument, erected in honor of the Soldiers and Sailors of Allentown. What impressed me most was the lighting effect used to show the monument at night. Nothing garish, like the Coney Island effect, so many times seen in America, but the whole was bathed in a soft glow that was extremely effective and peaceful.

“We liked Allentown so much that we remained overnight, and before leaving the following day, took time to look around. To our surprise we found the sidewalks and streets extremely clean, which is the exception, as you know, for an industrial city of some hundred thousand population. But everything was different, even the people seemed different and more friendly.”

“But as I said, it was an exception. Otherwise I found all over the same streets, the same railway stations, the same houses, the same stores, and the same people in the same dress. They asked me the same questions, using the same diction and the same expression, in the same mechanical voice, accompanied by the same sort of smile. Nothing individual or original. Do all Americans think the same, act the same?”

“Not by any means. You barely scratched the surface. You did not see what was underneath.”

“Perhaps not, but to me it seemed that everything, animate and inanimate, bore the same mark of standard uniformity imprinted on all with rubber stamps cast from the same die. Why, in every city I visited one could see on the sidewalks, floors of public buildings, even in churches, the same round marks of cast-away chewing gum. And in every city it stuck to my shoes in the same way.”

She paused awhile, but Carl was too deep in thought for words, so Sana continued:

“Yet, there is no other country on the face of the earth that could be made so interesting in every walk of life as your own, for, as you say, it is made up of people from all lands—they have given it the greatness it possesses. But what is so contradictory of the general state of life is the unique way in which all the people seem to seek notoriety—the underdressed women of the street and ballroom—the sensational divorces and murders—the demands of the blackmailers and the numerous clever ways in which unassuming persons are cheated out of their hard earned dollars by fraudulent schemers and consummate rogues. Seemingly, this condition appears to be a paradox, and so it would be if entirely separated from the general plan of life, but it is inextricably interwoven in the cosmic scheme—the whole. Because someone has been successful in a certain line, oblivious of its virtue or its evil, others will pursue the same path in quest of wealth equal to their brother. Yet considering all, I greatly admire your country. It holds a spell of fascination for me, although I cannot define it.”

Carl, although one could not say he was unattentive to Sana in her discourse, was thinking of things other than the subject of her remarks. Turning to the girl, he asked, “Where did you learn the fascinating dance you performed last night?”

“Oh that? Just a few steps which de Rochelle taught me while I was under hypnotic influence. A friend of mine, Count von Sarnoff, called it the ‘Vampire Dance,’ after he had seen it.”

“Why, yes. A young Russian fellow—sporty to an extreme I discovered, and deadly in love with me.”

“Hmm. How did you get along with him? The temperatures and temperaments of Russia and the Sahara are two very different things and hardly to be reconciled.”

“That is just what made it so fascinating—for a time. Love speaks an international language, you know,” she smiled.

“Indeed? Quite interesting”—coldly, then changing his manner quickly, “But it would be most charming to hear your story of the ‘Vampire Dance’.”

“If you promise not to say nasty things, or get angry at what I tell you, I shall tell you all about it.”

Carl was but too anxious to learn anything and everything relating to Sana, not to yield compliance to this mild request. Her musical voice, her manner and ways had already worked their charm. He was even more in love than he imagined.

“After de Rochelle had disappeared I returned to Europe where in Paris I met the Princess Cassandra, a Russian. I traveled with her, as companion, over Europe, visiting the various resorts and cities. At Monte Carlo, while we were trying to lose our money, I suppose, at one of the roulette tables, the Princess recognized her nephew, von Sarnoff, who had been winning steadily. He came over to our table and after the usual introductions, played for me. He seemed to have lots of luck and I won more money than I had ever seen before. Then we went to Baden-Baden, where de Rochelle put in an appearance. I had him arrested while he was fighting a duel because of me, and then I returned to my desert home.”

“But I thought you were going to tell me the story of the dance. How did you learn it?”

“The dance itself was an exotic movement that had its birth in the mind of de Rochelle, who taught it to me when I was in a trance. But he has passed from my mind—he proved himself to be nothing but an impostor—that is all.”

“But the dance you did last night would have been impossible while wearing the long dresses and clothes of civilization.”

Sana looked at Carl with pleading eyes, “Why do you say that? The whole thing is distasteful to me now when I think of it.”

Anxious though he was to hear the whole story, Carl did not wish to force it from the girl, so kept silent, looking out over the desert sands.

Sana, however, read his thoughts. Patting his hand ever so lightly she resumed, “We are friends. I can tell it to you. I know you will understand. Perhaps it is for the best. Who knows?”

Carl, letting his gaze rest on her face, objected with, “No—if it hurts you to tell it, I would rather you would not.”

“But I promised I would. I shall keep my promise. Only, please, please, do not think ill of me. That would hurt more than the story.”

“As I said the dance was taught me while under hypnotic influence. Upon coming out of the trance I found that I had partly disrobed myself. I did not realize it then, but I knew later that de Rochelle was using me as a plaything. Not that he ever harmed me. No. He always respected me.

“However, I would not advise any woman to subject herself to hypnotic influence, even if the man be her lawful husband, as I believed de Rochelle would some day be to me. It is wrong, very wrong. The victim does just as the hypnotist wishes—tells him everything—lets him analyze every feeling or passion. Just how far he went with me I shall never know, but I have shed many a bitter tear thinking of the state I found myself in when coming out of a trance.”

“Please God, I shall never see him again. But I have learned my lesson. A lesson I shall never forget.”

“Tell me about the dance. Forget him, and tell me that. You know I have never seen anything like it. Was it not improved upon by you? I’m sure it was.”

“Yes, it was. You know my blood—gypsy blood—wild and free. After having been taught the first few steps the rest was easy. It was quite natural that my gypsy blood should come to the fore when I dance.

“It was at Baden-Baden that I first danced in public. I was at a private entertainment given by the young von Sarnoff. All of us had been drinking more or less, and most of us were, as you Americans would say, ‘a little tipsy.’ We were there to enjoy ourselves and gave little heed or thought to the morrow.

“Had I been sober I should never have let myself be persuaded by flattering words and praise. But the wine had gone to my head and I was easily led. Von Sarnoff had been making a fool of himself generally, drinking champagne from my slipper and making ardent love to me. Then he asked me to dance for them. There had been several quite risque performances that evening and in my madness I knew I could outdo them all. So I got on the table, threw aside my remaining slipper and danced for them. Without realizing it, I dropped my outer garment while dancing. At the end of the dance I found myself standing there in my little pink combination suit.

“Von Sarnoff refused to return my gown, but I managed to wrap myself in a table cover. It was von Sarnoff who christened me the ‘virtuous vampire dancer.’ Just how much vamping I do in my dance I never know. No doubt you and the other watchers last night could tell it better than I. But the name lingered in my mind, and so I have named it the ‘Dance of the Vampire’.”

Carl, eager-eyed, “Really I must confess I did not pay much attention to the dance. My eyes were on the dancer. Suppose you show it to me now.”

“No, not now. Some other time. Perhaps after you return once more to our great desert.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to wait. But tell me, dear, why did you come to this out of the way corner of the earth after spending so much of your time in the great cities and resorts of the world?”

“Oh, I soon tired of that false life. So I decided to join my mother, who, after my father’s death had moved here from the Gurara Oasis. This used to be her old home, you see. Here at least I can live a natural life, free from what you call civilization. Of course, even here one must make a living, so that is why I dance. They look at such things differently here. A woman can be a dancer and still be considered good, but in Europe—well you know. Besides it is great fun to be able to ride around free as the air, in native dress, although sometimes I masquerade in European style.”

“Sana, I admire the frankness with which you have related your experiences to me. I am glad, for your sake, that you have returned here. I hope, too, that you believe me when I say I know none of those happenings were brought about through fault of yours.”

“As for your dance,” resumed Carl, “it is worthy of all the praise bestowed upon it, and I....”

“Oh, your American girls are equally as good dancers. I learned, too, that they were very clever in ridding themselves of their stays when at dances. ‘Parking them,’ I believe they call it. Of course, we of the desert do not wear such things at all. We have our own mode of costume and dress.”

For a moment she hesitated and then continued, “I have often wondered why in America, such a large good-natured country, full of foreign elements, the very forefathers of the country did not do something to maintain their national costumes in the mode of dress. How much more interesting it would be to see the dress of the American Indian, the true American, and that of the earlier settlers, instead of everyone trying to pattern their clothes after the so-called latest European fashions?

“How much more interesting and picturesque it would be to see Turks, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, Greeks and Swedes in their national costumes, instead of appearing as if all are of a single mind.

“Many of your people travel through foreign lands to study foreign ways, while, in fact, you have everything in your own country, so far as peoples and their customs are concerned. Why deny it?

“I noticed too that you have but one official language. Perhaps it is best, but then take the case of Switzerland, much smaller in population than the city of New York. There they have three official languages and get along wonderfully. Everyone has the opportunity of learning three languages, which is a great thing to be sure. German, French and Italian are not called foreign or alien tongues in Switzerland. The very word ‘foreign’ specifies the limits of one’s knowledge.”

All this while Carl had been thinking of just one thing. That was to secure Sana for himself. Sana, he was sure, brought up under the strict discipline of her father and with her broad views of life, would be a safer wife to him than the cold blooded, calculating New York propositions, as he called them, most of whom do not know what they want, and flit from man to man as occasion demands.

To suit his purpose, he changed the conversation, taking her hand into his. To his delight she made no attempt to prevent his doing so.

“Yes, for some little time. Sooner or later, mother and I shall return to the Gurara Oasis, where I was born.”

“I confess I do like New York, with its shops, and plays and excitement. Oh, yes, I like those funny little places in Greenwich Village, I believe you call it.”

“Oh, that ‘nut section.’ They are rather unconventional there. Who took you there?”

“My friend, Mrs. O’Brien, myself and two men friends of hers visited it one night, strolling from place to place. We had dinner and danced at the ‘Greenwich Village Inn’ and went also to the ‘Black Cat’ and the ‘Pirates’ Den’—the pirates there were rather tame, though.”

“Wouldn’t you like to return to America, to New York, to the Village, in company of a great admirer of yours?”

“Assume that he would be sitting at present at your side, holding your hand.”

Sana tried to withdraw her hand at this, but Carl held it the tighter. He leaned toward her, taking the other hand too, and whispered softly, “Sana, dear, look at me. Ever since I met you on the bridge that afternoon you have filled my dreams. I despaired of ever seeing you again, and life did not seem worth the living. When I saw you again last night it was in a dream. Thoughts of you kept me awake all night. Will you return to America as my wife? You know I love you and love you dearly. And I think you care for me too.”

The girl was a little uneasy, as if at a loss to know what to do or say. Her gaze ranged the distant horizon as she slowly replied, “You may be right with regard to the last—I cannot say. But I will admit I couldn’t sleep last night myself. That we should meet here I do not understand.”

“Sana, dear, answer my question,” pleaded Carl, trying to draw her to him gently.

The question was never answered, for, with a sudden jerk Sana freed one hand and slapped herself on the neck. A bee, stunned by the blow, fell into her lap.

Sana made a grimace and touching carefully the spot where the bee had left its sting, remarked, “I believe it is swelling.”

Carl now took matters into his own hands. Drawing her gently to him, her shoulder against his bosom, he studied the red mark, saying, “I don’t think it is poisonous, but it certainly is swelling.”

With Sana’s body quivering in his arms he pressed the spot tenderly with his fingers. A sudden thought shot through his mind and he added softly, “Let me take out the poison.” Without waiting for response he bent over her, pressing his lips upon her neck to suck out the poison.

The warmth of her velvet-like flesh made his head swim to the music of the gods.

Sana was blushing a brilliant red, like a poppy, Carl thought, and she tried to get free. He held her all the closer now; his hand inadvertently upon her breast which was, he felt, beginning to move stormily. Her resistance did not last long. Soon she lay quite still, her shoulder against his bosom. His bosom, too, was heaving mightily as he pressed his lips tightly against her neck, while Sana slightly parted her quivering lips, breathing heavily and slowly, her body exhaling a sweet fragrance like the aroma of a sun-kissed rose.

Carl knew it as that of an untouched blossoming flower and he was happy! Her heart, under his hand, told him too, of her feelings, and lifting his lips slightly, he murmured, “Sana, I love you. Be mine,” and his cheek brushed against her warm neck.

His passionate kisses upon her neck startled Sana for a moment. She became conscious of his hand upon her rising breast, but in her ecstasies of bliss, she did not resist.

Her long drawn breaths became more passionate; her limbs were rigid with fire. Finally, stretching her body slowly, she turned around in his arms. Her loving eyes which had changed from their grayish blue to pure blue, were shining with fire, as she looked at Carl, who holding her before him, whispered, “Honey, dearest, be mine.”

In answer to his plea, she crept closer to him and threw her bare arms around his neck and drew him gently closer. But Carl clasping her body feverishly in his arms, held her, looking steadily into her starry bright eyes, as if dissecting the passion raging in her body, and he drank the breath of her sighing emotion. With a soft “my desert star,” his lips covered her quivering mouth. In a passion of fire, clasping their arms still tighter, they experienced that moment of ecstatic bliss when passing time leaves no trace. Heart to heart, lips to lips, they lay there, tight in each other’s arms, in an ecstasy of happiness.

In his glory, Carl could think of nothing more sensible to say that “That little bee surely left sweet honey upon your neck.”

Bending over and kissing her neck once more, he answered, “Sweeter than sugar, but only half as sweet as you.” With that he showered her neck and shoulders with kisses.

Forgotten in a moment was the past with its many trials, unthought of was the future—the present alone existed for the two so closely clasped in love’s embrace. Those moments of rapture were like premeditated bits of eternity. The world and all its vain dreams could not give the supreme madness of joy which they experienced in silence and solitude. The kisses they drank from each other’s lips were sweeter than the honey of Hymettus. Their corporal beings seemed to vanish and dissolve away, while their souls merged into one whose aspirations were boundless, whose thoughts knew not words and whose pleasures were not of this earth.

The sun was high in the heavens when Sana at last released herself from Carl’s arms.

“Come, Carl dear. We must be going. I shouldn’t wonder but what mother is already very anxious for me.”

Arm in arm they sauntered homeward, along the quiet shore of the Niger—that river of history, Sana’s horse following behind them, puzzled, no doubt, over the strange being who came and caused his mistress to neglect him so.

They had strolled but a short distance, when they heard a woman’s cry. Their soaring flights of fancy were brought quickly to earth by the almost unearthly yells and shrieks.

Looking around they perceived a negro girl chasing a large monkey that was running away with her clothing. It had chosen an opportune moment for its mischief while the dark damsel was enjoying a swim.

Carl and Sana hurried toward the scene of the chase, but as they neared the spot, they saw the monkey suddenly turn and attack the girl. Flashes of livid flame sparkled maliciously in its small beady eyes, as it made the fatal spring. It was about to rend the throat of its victim, when it observed Carl coming toward it, revolver in hand. Crazed now with fear, the animal leaped from the prostrate negress and lunged at Carl, its new enemy. A well directed shot, and it was over. The hairy thing fell dead at Carl’s feet, while the negress, recovering from her fear, and embarrassed at the presence of the man, got up quickly and without so much as stooping to pick up her clothing, rushed away into the water, resembling nothing so much as an animated puppet of ebony.

Sana’s mother, a gypsy not of the type Carl had often seen traveling through America, was waiting at the door of her modest home. She greeted Carl in friendly fashion when introduced by Sana. She had heard of him, she said, and thanked him profusely for the aid he had given her daughter.

She was quite surprised when Carl asked her for Sana’s hand in marriage. That would be up to Sana entirely, she told him, and if Sana was satisfied she would be satisfied also.

Upon hearing this, Sana threw herself into Carl’s arms exclaiming that that had already been settled.

Much to Carl’s delighted surprise he found that his future mother-in-law was a woman of distinct culture and refinement, something he had not expected to see in a gypsy. Together they spoke for quite a time, discussing many things of mutual interest.

The talk reverted to Sana’s father, of whom the mother had only words of praise. Apparently he had tried hard in the last years of his life to make up for the foolishness of his youth. Excusing herself, Sana’s mother left the room, returning shortly with a manuscript in pencil. Handing it to Carl, she explained, “My husband wrote this just before his death. He was a great student of astronomy and this data he compiled as the basis for a book, but he died before he could have it published.”

Noting that Carl perused the manuscript with great interest she continued, “You may have it, if you wish. I understand you are a writer and it may be of inspiration to you. Take it and use it. Perhaps he who wrote it will sometime know that his work did amount to something.”

Urged by Sana, Carl readily accepted the data, thanking the mother, and promising to read it carefully during his travels across the desert. He was sure, he said, that it would prove of great help and value to him sometime.

Carl was about to take his leave to return to the hotel, when Sana, recalling something to mind, said, “Mother, read Carl’s hand, please.”

This the gypsy consented to do, motioning to Sana to go outdoors, as they would have to be alone.

Taking Carl’s hand in hers, she studied the lines carefully, and in an earnest tone, began, “I see danger—great trouble for you—very soon—you are going to lose your best friend. Yes. Some man is going to take that friend away from you!”

She paused for a while, then seriously, “You are going to have a serious accident, but you will recover. I also see another dark girl coming into your life, whom you should not trust. You are going to take a long journey across the water, and that girl will be with you.”

Carl, thinking the girl to be Sana, interrupted with “What will become of her?”

“You will cast her away after you have crossed the water and you will have a great deal of worry over the other girl, whom you really love.”

Carl did not know what was what, nor who was who, and asked for a description of both girls, to which the gypsy replied, “Both are dark haired and beautiful. The one means well, the other does not.”

Carl, desirous to learn as much as he could, asked to be told the final outcome, but the only answer he got was, “That, one cannot say. But everything will turn out as you want it to be.”

This in a measure satisfied Carl. He knew how he wanted things to turn out. At any rate he was of too practical turn of mind to give much weight to a palm-reading.

Taking leave of the mother he joined Sana outdoors. They chatted a while, making plans for a trip on horseback the following day.

After Carl had gone, Sana was told by her mother that she was sorry that she had read Carl’s future and warned Sana of the danger ahead. While Sana believed devoutly in her mother, she dismissed the fear that harm might come to herself, but she was worried in regard to Carl.

Upon learning of the proposed excursion into the desert the following day, her mother tried to persuade Sana not to go, but the girl only answered, “If it is predicted that certain things will happen, they will happen; all one can do is to await the time and take it good naturedly.”

Arguments were useless, for Sana simply said, “Your reading of the future would not be of any value if the happenings you predict could be prevented in time,” adding, with a little smile, “You don’t want to be considered a faker, do you dear?”

CHAPTER VII THE LOVERS ON THE BEACH

CHAPTER VII
THE LOVERS ON THE BEACH