The groaning of the handmill stopped for a moment, as Faṭṭūma wiped her damp hand on her loose blue dress, looking gravely out into the enveloping night that crouched low over the tumbledown houses. The misshapen moon gazed at the world with a cold eye, casting its languid shadows on the earth that was drunk on the powerful vapours of summer. The still air shifted vaguely from time to time and the fragrant scent of lavender filled the desolate surroundings. Passing breezes whispered together among the wheat and wild thorns, bearing the lovesick neighing of horses from round about and the murmuring and grunting of the sheep lying close by the huts. Every now and then from out of the deep silence came a long melancholy howling from a pack of jackals, answered by a storm of barking dogs. Then no sooner had the storm passed and calm returned to the desolate spot1 than the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets rose up from the banks of the irrigation channels, whose waters trembled at the touch of the moon as they made their way slowly towards the tumbledown houses.