jacket. She still looked
apprehensive, but she had put on her hat and fastened a sprig of red
geranium in the front of her black gown. The curiosity was in the
ascendant.

"We are not going quite alone, Mam'zelle?"

"No, no. Batouch will protect us."

Suzanne breathed a furtive sigh.

The poet was in the white arcade with Hadj, who looked both wicked
and deplorable, and had a shabby air, in marked contrast to Batouch's
ostentatious triumph. Domini felt quite sorry for him.

"You come with us too," she said.

Hadj squared his shoulders and instantly looked vivacious and almost
smart. But an undecided expression came into his face.

"Where is Madame going?"

"To see the village."

Batouch shot a glance at Hadj and smiled unpleasantly.

"I will come with Madame."

Batouch still smiled.

"We are going to the Ouled Nails," he said significantly to Hadj.

"I--I will come."

They set out. Suzanne looked gently at the poet's legs and seemed
comforted.

"Take great care of Mademoiselle Suzanne," Domini said to the poet. "She
is a little nervous in the dark."

"Mademoiselle Suzanne is like the first day after the fast of Ramadan,"
replied the poet, majestically. "No one would harm her were she to
wander alone to Tombouctou."

The prospect drew from Suzanne a startled gulp. Batouch placed himself
tenderly at her side and they set out, Domini walking behind with Hadj.

CHAPTER VIII

The village was full of the wan presage of the coming of the moon. The
night was very still and very warm. As they skirted the long gardens
Domini saw a light in the priest's house. It made her wonder how he
passed his solitary evenings when he went home from the hotel, and she
fancied him sitting in some plainly-furnished little room with Bous-Bous
and a few books, smoking a pipe and thinking sadly of the White Fathers
of Africa and of his frustrated desire for complete renunciation. With
this last thought blended the still remote sound of the hautboy.
It suggested anything rather than renunciation; mysterious
melancholy--successor to passion--the cry of longing, the wail of the
unknown that draws some men and women to splendid follies and to ardent
pilgrimages whose goal is the mirage.

Hadj was talking in a low voice, but Domini did not listen to him. She
was vaguely aware that he was abusing Batouch, saying that he was a
liar, inclined to theft, a keef smoker, and in a general way steeped
to the lips in crime. But th