the sand, and now, as
the Count held out to him a hand filled with money, he made no motion
to take it, and half turned as if he thought of retreating into the
recesses of the garden.

"Here, Monsieur! here!" exclaimed the Count, with his eyes on the crowd,
towards which Domini was walking with a sort of mischievous slowness, to
whet those appetites already so voracious.

Androvsky set his teeth and took the money, dropping one or two pieces
on the ground. For a moment the Count seemed doubtful of his guest's
participation in his own lively mood.

"Is this boring you?" he asked. "Because if so--"

"No, no, Monsieur, not at all! What am I to do?"

"Those hands will tell you."

The clamour grew more exigent.

"And when you want more come to me!"

Then he called out in Arabic, "Gently! Gently!" as the vehement
scuffling seemed about to degenerate into actual fighting at Domini's
approach, and hurried forward, followed more slowly by Androvsky.

Smain, from whose velvety eyes the dreams were not banished by the
uproar, stood languidly by the porter's tent, gazing at Androvsky.
Something in the demeanour of the new visitor seemed to attract him.
Domini, meanwhile, had reached the gateway. Gently, with a capricious
deftness and all a woman's passion for personal choice, she dropped the
bits of money into the hands belonging to the faces that attracted her,
disregarding the bellowings of those passed over. The light from all
these gleaming eyes made her feel warm, the clamour that poured from
these brown throats excited her. When her fingers were empty she touched
the Count's arm eagerly.

"More, more, please!"

"Ecco, Signora."

He held out to her the bag. She plunged her hands into it and came
nearer to the gate, both hands full of money and held high above her
head. The Arabs leapt up at her like dogs at a bone, and for a moment
she waited, laughing with all her heart. Then she made a movement to
throw the money over the heads of the near ones to the unfortunates who
were dancing and shrieking on the outskirts of the mob. But suddenly her
hands dropped and she uttered a startled exclamation.

The sand-diviner of the red bazaar, slipping like a reptile under the
waving arms and between the furious bodies of the beggars, stood up
before her with a smile on his wounded face, stretched out to her his
emaciated hands with a fawning, yet half satirical, gesture of desire.

CHAPTER XII

The money dropped f