the
white flame of passion which lit up Beni-Mora. A patrol of Tirailleurs
Indigenes passed by going up the street, in yellow and blue uniforms,
turbans and white gaiters, their rifles over their broad shoulders. The
faint tramp of their marching feet was just audible on the sandy road.

"Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,"
said Domini, rather maliciously. "Let us follow the soldiers."

Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he
would like to strangle her.

"I am afraid of nothing," he exclaimed proudly. "Madame does not know
Hadj-ben-Ibrahim."

Batouch laughed soundlessly, shaking his great shoulders. It was evident
that he had divined his cousin's wish to supplant him and was busily
taking his revenge. Domini was amused, and as they went slowly up the
street in the wake of the soldiers she said:

"Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?"

"Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone. But with ladies--"

"You were here last night, weren't you, with the traveller from the
hotel?"

"No, Madame. The Monsieur of the hotel preferred to visit the cafe of
the story-teller, which is far more interesting. If Madame will permit
me to take her--"

But this last assault was too much for the poet's philosophy. He
suddenly threw off all pretence of graceful calm, and poured out upon
Hadj a torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with passionate
gestures which filled Suzanne with horror and Domini with secret
delight. She liked this abrupt unveiling of the raw. There had always
lurked in her an audacity, a quick spirit of adventure more boyish than
feminine. She had reached the age of thirty-two without ever gratifying
it, or even fully realising how much she longed to gratify it. But now
she began to understand it and to feel that it was imperious.

"I have a barbarian in me," she thought.

"Batouch!" she said sharply.

The poet turned a distorted face to her.

"Madame!"

"That will do. Take us to the dancing-house."

Batouch shot a last ferocious glance at Hadj and they went on into the
crowd of strolling men.

The little street, bright with the lamps of the small houses, from which
projected wooden balconies painted in gay colours, and with the glowing
radiance of the moon, was mysterious despite its gaiety, its obvious
dedication to the cult of pleasure. Alive with the shrieking sounds of
music, the movement and the murmur of desert humanity made i