are of soul.
His body was strong and at ease. She thought of him going away with the
priest in friendly conversation. How splendid it would be if she could
feel some day that the health of his soul accorded completely with that
of his body!

"Batouch!" she called almost gaily.

Batouch appeared, languidly smoking a cigarette, and with a large flower
tied to a twig protending from behind his ear.

"Saddle the horses. Monsieur has gone with the Pere Beret. I shall take
a ride, just a short ride round the camp over there--in at the city
gate, through the market-place, and home. You will come with me."

Batouch threw away his cigarette with energy. Poet though he was, all
the Arab blood in him responded to the thought of a gallop over the
sands. Within a few minutes they were off. When she was in the saddle it
was at all times difficult for Domini to be sad or even pensive. She had
a native passion for a good horse, and riding was one of the joys,
and almost the keenest, of her life. She felt powerful when she had
a spirited, fiery animal under her, and the wide spaces of the desert
summoned speed as they summoned dreams. She and Batouch went away at a
rapid pace, circled round the Arab cemetery, made a detour towards the
south, and then cantered into the midst of the camps of the Ouled Nails.
It was the hour of the siesta. Only a few people were stirring, coming
and going over the dunes to and from the city on languid errands for the
women of the tents, who reclined in the shade of their brushwood
arbours upon filthy cushions and heaps of multi-coloured rags, smoking
cigarettes, playing cards with Arab and negro admirers, or staring into
vacancy beneath their heavy eyebrows as they listened to the sound of
music played upon long pipes of reed. No dogs barked in their camp.
The only guardians were old women, whose sandy faces were scored with
innumerable wrinkles, and whose withered hands drooped under their loads
of barbaric rings and bracelets. Batouch would evidently have liked to
dismount here. Like all Arabs he was fascinated by the sight of these
idols of the waste, whose painted faces called to the surface the fluid
poetry within him, but Domini rode on, descending towards the city gate
by which she had first entered Amara. The priest's house was there
and Androvsky was with the priest. She hoped he had perhaps gone in to
return the visit paid to them. As she rode into the city she glanced
at the house. The door