Free Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s Page A

Certainly not with laughter. His teeth were very white against his skin. Humiliated, Cecile endured in stoic silence.
    “You are quite amusing,” he said at last, still chuckling. “For that reason alone I might take you with us. But the others, I fear, would not understand. Life is harsh on the desert. Everything, everyone, must have a purpose. No, I think you must be a bit more useful than that. Can you cook? Weave? Milk a camel? Make
leben?”
    “I can certainly try,” Cecile snapped. Then, because she still did not trust him completely, she added, “As long as that is
all
you will require of me.”
    The features visible beneath the hood appeared to grow serious. “You have suffered much at the hands of men, so perhaps you suspicions are understandable. But I will tell you this: We are Badawins, not men of the city, not men of the caliph’s ilk. A woman’s honor is sacred to us. Only within the bonds of marriage would a man lay a hand on a woman. So, you need have no fear on that account.
    “Further, I say to you, you have shown courage and stamina, if not the wisdom to guard your tongue. And from what I hear from Hagar, you speak our language in a manner befitting one who has been born to it … despite your European upbringing. As a matter of fact, I prefer you use our language from now on.”
    Cecile clasped her hands to hide their sudden trembling. In the dialect of the desert, rather than French, she said, “You will take me with you, then? You will help me find Shaikh Haddal?”
    “You have the word of El Faris.”
    He had replied in Arabic, and for the first time Cecile realized the meaning of his name. El Faris … the Horseman. But what was his real name? And how, now that she thought of it, had he come to learn French?
    He must have seen the question in her eyes, for, misinterpreting it, he said, “You doubt me still, I see. Well, perhaps I should not blame you. As I said, you have suffered a great deal recently at the hands of others, Arab as well as Frenchman. So …” He paused, then raised his hands to the hood of his robe.
    Slowly, he pulled it away from his face. Cecile saw his dark, thick brows first, drawn almost straight across the eye ridge. Then she saw his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.
    They were blue, as clear, bright, and true as the waters of a shallow bay. They crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
    “So,” he continued casually, “mayhap you will accept the word of an Englishman. Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Matthew Blackmoore …”

Chapter
7
    “W AKE UP . W AKE UP, THE DAY IS WASTING! ”
    Cecile came to groggily and opened her eyes to see Hagar bending over her. Dust of the desert swirled through the open tent flap, and beyond she saw a laden camel as it passed. It wasn’t a dream! Cecile sprang from the sleeping quilt, nearly knocking Hagar from her feet.
    “Careful, you stupid girl!” the old woman admonished, not unkindly. “Now hurry and get to work. We must strike the tent and load the camels.”
    “Just a few moments,” Cecile begged. “Please!”
    Before Hagar could protest, Cecile had bolted. She couldn’t wait; she had to find him. There had been no time last night. When El Faris, or Matthew Blackmoore, or whatever he wanted to be called, had finished with his stunning revelations, she had been too exhausted to do more than crawl back into Hagar’s tent and go to sleep. But now …
    The camp was a beehive of activity. To her right, a tent fluttered to the ground and was immediately set upon by two women. Others loaded the
makhur,
the pack camels, as still others fed the war mares. There was a great deal of dust and confusion. Cecile wanted to cry aloud but knew it would not be fitting. Frantic, her eyes search for the familiar figure.
    She saw him at last, helping a young boy to keep his nervous herd of sheep from scattering. Face alight with happiness, she picked up her hem and ran to him.
    “Jali!”
    “Oh, my.” The small brown