mutilated trunks reared themselves bare and desolate-looking. Diana
took off her heavy helmet and tossed it to the man behind her, and sat
looking at the oasis, while the faint breeze that had sprung up stirred
her thick, short hair, and cooled her hot head. The sad notes of the
pigeons and the broken palms, that with their unusualness vaguely
suggested a tragedy, lent an air of mystery to the place that pleased
her.

She turned eagerly to Mustafa Ali. "Why did you not arrange for the
camp to be here? It would have been a long enough ride."

The man fidgeted in his saddle, fingering his beard uneasily, his eyes
wandering past Diana's and looking at the broken trees. "No man rests
here, Mademoiselle. It is the place of devils. The curse of Allah is
upon it," he muttered, touching his horse with his heel, and making it
sidle restlessly--an obvious hint that Diana ignored.

"I like it," she persisted obstinately.

He made a quick gesture with his fingers. "It is accursed. Death lurks
beside those broken palm trees," he said, looking at her curiously.

She jerked her head with a sudden smile. "For you, perhaps, but not for
me. Allah's curse rests only upon those who fear it. But since you are
afraid, Mustafa Ali, let us go on." She gave a little light laugh, and
Mustafa Ali kicked his horse savagely as he followed.

The distance before her spread out cleanly with the sharp distinctness
that precedes the setting sun. She rode on until she began to wonder if
it would indeed be night-fall before she reached her destination. They