English with a slightly foreign accent, but when the people asked her nationality, she smiled wistfully and replied, evasively, that it was good to be born in the desert. "The desert," she would continue, "is symbolic of the world. It contains nothing but what we bring into it ourselves. It is not a power of good, nor is it the abode of evil. It is not the garden of God, as the Arabs imagine, nor is it the possession of Satan. When it brings peace into a man's soul, it does it primarily because its marvelous silence, mystery, and unity draw his mind from other subjects. It is the condition of a person's mind that helps to create the impression. Ofttimes small things are magnified; the great ones overlooked. Some of us have eyes that see; others have but the limited vision of a sand-blind man."
Thus spoke Mes'oodeh, the desert woman of Wadi-el-Gibli; Mes'oodeh whose beauty was famed from the Soudan to Ghadames; Mes'oodeh, the gorgeous flower with the artificial perfume; Mes'oodeh who boasted of her far-seeing vision, and yet who was in reality stone-blind, as blind as Ali, the Berber, who begged for alms in the Arbar-Asat at Tripoli, or Khanoff, the marabout who preached with fanatic vehemence at the Wells of Wadi-el-Gibli.
2
Monsignor Andrea Giovanni, the Genoese priest of the Christian Mission, dwelt all alone, save for one Arab servant, in a tiny adobe house in the southern part of Wadi-el-Gibli. The window of his study faced the Great Desert, and sometimes when he had grown brain-tired from his endless toil in the sun, he would stand by the window gazing out over the reposeless billows of sand which glistened in the dazzling glare like chips of glowing bronze. And as he gazed out into the far silence, he would dream, dream of the days which were to come when the desert had been reclaimed, when the mantle of sadness would be lifted from the Sahara, and the great ocean of sand would come into its own.
Andrea Giovanni was about thirty-five, though his thin, colorless face, sorrowful, idealist's eyes, and simple black robes seemed to betoken a greater age. To him only the finest things in life appealed. He had never met Mes'oodeh. The two lived lives as completely apart as though they dwelt on different planets. But Mes'oodeh, the desert woman, had heard of the esthetic priest and it suddenly dawned upon her that here was a field for conquest. If she could get Andrea Giovanni to fall violently in love with her, it would be a distinct novelty. For a priest who had consecrated his life to God to fall in love with a woman who did not acknowledge that God, seemed to Mes'oodeh the very acme of humor. So she went to the simple house of Andrea Giovanni.
"Father," she murmured wearily, "my soul is a chaos of discordant emotions. I am soul-tired. Can you tell me how I can find peace?"
As Mes'oodeh spoke, she turned her great black eyes full upon Andrea's face. But he did not seem to appreciate her beauty. Softly he took her hand, as though she were a child, and led her to the window. He pointed out over the restless, whirling sand, the burning heat waves which seemed to merge the earth and sky into one great mass of molten metal, as he said, "Yonder is the desert. Go out into the Sahara and pray, for in prayer alone can you find peace."
And Mes'oodeh went out into the desert and knelt in prayer in a spot where Andrea Giovanni could gaze upon her from the window.
