If she did not belong to Beclere--
Owen looked up and watched them, and seeing Beclere glance in the
direction of the shepherd, he added, "Or to the shepherd."
The girl went into the house, and Beclere came down to meet his
guest, apologising for having left him so long alone.... He talked
to him about the beauty of the morning. The rains were over, or
nearly, but very often they began again.
"_Cella se pent qu'elle ne soit qu'une courte embellie, mais
profitons en_," and they turned to admire the roses.
"A beautiful girl, the one you were just speaking to."
"Yes... yes; she is the handsomest in the oasis, and there are many
handsome girls here. The Arab race is beautiful, male and female.
Her brother, for instance, the shepherd--"
"Her brother," Owen thought. "Ah!" They stopped to watch the
shepherd, a boy of sixteen. "About two years older than his sister,"
Owen remarked, and Beclere acquiesced. The boy had begun to play his
flute again. He played at first listlessly, then with all his soul,
and then with extraordinary passion. Owen watched the balance of his
body and arms, and the movement, extraordinarily voluptuous, of his
neck and head. He played on, his breath coming at times so feebly
that there was hardly any sound at all, at other times awaking music
loud and imperative; and the two men stood listening, for how many
minutes they did not know, but for what seemed to them a long while.
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