The Weeping Desert Read Online Free Page B

approval. Suddenly she realised that her face was uncovered, and in some confusion she turned away and wound a muslin veil round her head, so that only her beautiful dark eyes were visible.
    “Tell me who you are,” said John again.
    The girl waved her free hand gracefully to encompass the buildings and the gardens, her henna’d palm uppermost.
    “This is the old town palace of His Supreme Highness, Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, the Ruler of Shuqrat, Land of the Five Deserts and Birthplace of the Eagle’s Tongue,” she said gravely.
    Then she added, with simple pride: “I am his second daughter, Princess Khadija Safieh, Flower of His Eye and Daughter of all Wisdom. These are the women’s quarters. You are in the royal harem.”

Chapter Two
    John’s first reaction was one of dismay. If he was caught in the royal harem, then it was the end of his career with the oil company for certain. Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid would demand his rapid removal from the country, followed by instant dismissal. His blood chilled as he recalled rumours of the crude and drastic Arab law—beatings, mutilations, dawn shootings—it would be a wonder if he even escaped with his life.
    “I’ve got to get out,” he muttered, thoroughly alarmed.
    “Do not despair, tall Englishman,” said Khadija. “I said I would hide you.”
    “What will happen if I’m caught?”
    “To glance upon the veiled face of one of the sheikh’s favourites is to have your eyes put out. To have seen such a flower without her veil is instant death,” she informed him coolly.
    John dare not imagine the extent of his punishment, for this lovely Arab girl was not only a favourite, but a princess, and a princess still wet from her bath.
    Khadija seemed to read his thoughts, for she slipped behind the ivory screen and reappeared a moment later covered from neck to foot in a long white robe with wide-hanging sleeves. From the inelegant bulkiness of the robe, it looked as if the princess had been too modest to shed the voluminous bath sheet.
    “What is your name?”
    “John Cameron.”
    If it had not been for the real danger in the situation, John might have enjoyed the novelty of seeing inside the forbidden palace. The royal harem—it was such a strange mixture of the old and the new, the magnificent and the tawdry.
    “Follow me, John Cameron,” she said.
    Khadija led John out into the narrow corridor and, making sure that no one was about, she went swiftly down another passage in her sandalled feet and stopped at a small wooden door. She took a key from her sleeve and unlocked the door, then motioned John inside and locked the door behind them. They were in a small, dark hallway with a single, heavily barred window.
    “No one is allowed here,” she said. “These stairs lead to my summer kiosk.”
    He followed her up the rickety staircase, keeping his head down because of the low head-room. The narrow wooden treads were dusty and worn. Minutes later they arrived, a little breathless, at the top, and entered a hexagonal room with open alcoves on every side. It was simply furnished with a few Persian rugs, a sofa and some small tables piled high with glossy magazines.
    “You like?” Khadija asked.
    “Very much,” said John.
    “This was my mother’s favourite room,” said Khadija. “Here she would catch the summer breezes, and dream of her own country so many miles away across the sea.”
    Khadija stood by an open alcove. The view over the rooftops and harbour wall to the sparkling sea was magnificent, the water deepening now to a rich blue as the sun slid rosily away. Laden dhows plied their trade up and down the coast, gliding without effort on the smooth surface, their swooping sails billowed to the light evening breeze, their proud prows elaborately carved.
    “My mother was French,” Khadija went on, talking hurriedly, as if she had not spoken to anyone for weeks and was afraid John might suddenly disappear. “My father met her while he was on a grand tour of