Sometimes Zahara was proud of her descent from a dancing-girl of
Kenneh. This was always at night, when a sort of barbaric
excitement possessed her which came from the blood of her mother.
Then, a new light entered her eyes and they seemed to grow long
and languid and dark, so that no one would have suspected that in
daylight they were blue.
A wild pagan abandon claimed her, and she seemed to hear the
wailing of reed instruments and the throb of the ancient drums
which were played of old before the kings of Egypt. Safiyeh was
not a true dancing girl, and because she knew none of those fine
frenzies, she danced without inspiration, like a brown puppet
moved by strings. But she could play upon an a'ood much better
than Zahara, and therefore must not be upset until she had played
for the Dance of the Veils.
Seeing that the bargain was all but concluded, Zahara stole back
to her room. Her lightly clad body gleamed like that of some
statue become animate.
Her cheeks flushed as she took up the veils, of which she alone
knew the symbolic meaning; the white veil, the purple veil: each
had its story to tell her; and the veil of burning scarlet. In a
corner of the big room on a divan near the door she had seen the
Spaniard, a handsome, swarthy figure in his well-fitting dress
clothes, and now, opening a drawer, she glanced at the little
pile of notes which represented her share of the bargain.
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