And he returned in thought to the end which he had devised
for himself--a passing into the desert, leaving no trace but the
single fact that on a certain day he had joined a caravan. Going
whither? Timbuctoo? To be slain there--an English traveller seeking
forgetfulness of a cruel mistress--would be a romantic end for him!
But if his end were captivity, slavery? His thoughts turned from
Timbuctoo to one of the many oases between Tunis and the Soudan. In
one of these it would be possible to make friends with an Arab
chieftain and to live. But would she, whose body was the colour of
amber, or the desert, or any other invention his fancy might devise,
relieve him from the soul-sickness from which he suffered? It seemed
to him that nothing would. All the same, he would have to try to
forget her, "Evelyn, Evelyn."
The bournous which his Arab servant brought in at that moment might
help him. A change of language would be a help, and he might become
a Moslem--for he believed in Mohammedanism as much as in
Christianity; and an acceptance of the Koran would facilitate
travelling in the desert. That and a little Arabic, a few mouthfuls,
and no Mahdi would dare to enslave him.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77