drivers, one of whom was sent rolling
into a noisome dust heap with his turban torn from his head.

"The inn! This is the inn! Madame will descend here. Madame will eat in
the garden. Monsieur Alphonse! Monsieur Alphonse! Here are clients
for _dejeuner_. I have brought them. Do not believe Mohammed. It is I
that--I will assist Madame to descend. I will----"

Domini was standing in a tiny cabaret before a row of absinthe bottles,
laughing, almost breathless. She scarcely knew how she had come there.
Looking back she saw Androvsky still sitting on his horse in the midst
of the clamouring mob. She went to the low doorway, but Mustapha barred
her exit.

"This is Sidi-Zerzour. Madame will eat in the garden. She is tired,
fainting. She will eat and then she will see the great Mosque of
Zerzour."

"Sidi-Zerzour!" she exclaimed. "Monsieur Androvsky, do you know where we
are? This is the famous Sidi-Zerzour, where the great warrior is buried,
and where the Arabs make pilgrimages to worship at his tomb."

"Yes, Madame."

He answered in a low voice.

"As we are here we ought to see. Do you know, I think we must yield to
honest Mustapha and have _dejeuner_ in the garden. It is twelve o'clock
and I am hungry. We might visit the mosque afterwards and ride home in
the afternoon."

He sat there hunched up on the horse and looked at her in silent
hesitation, while the Arabs stood round staring.

"You'd rather not?"

She spoke quietly. He shook his feet out of the stirrups. A number of
brown hands and arms shot forth to help him. Domini turned back into
the cabaret. She heard a tornado of voices outside, a horse neighing and
trampling, a scuffling of feet, but she did not glance round. In about
three minutes Androvsky joined her. He was limping slightly and bending
forward more than ever. Behind the counter on which stood the absinthe
bottle was a tarnished mirror, and she saw him glance quickly, almost
guiltily into it, put up his hands and try to brush the dust from his
hair, his shoulders.

"Let me do it," she said abruptly. "Turn round."

He obeyed without a word, turning his back to her. With her two hands,
which were covered with soft, loose suede gloves, she beat and brushed
the dust from his coat. He stood quite still while she did it. When she
had finished she said:

"There, that's better."

Her voice was practical. He did not move, but stood there.

"I've done what I can, Monsieur Androvsky."

Then he turn