“I don’t need you, Batouch,” she said.

But the poet was inexorable, backed up by the priest.

“It is my duty to accompany Madame.  I am responsible for her safety.”

“Indeed, you cannot go into the desert alone,” said the priest.

Domini glanced at Androvsky, who was standing silently under the arcade, a little withdrawn, looking uncomfortable and self-conscious.  She remembered her thought on the tower of the dice-thrower, and of how the presence of the stranger had seemed to double her pleasure then.  Up the road from the Rue Berthe came the noise of a galloping horse.  The shoeblack was returning furiously, his bare legs sticking out on either side of a fiery light chestnut with a streaming mane and tail.

“Monsieur Androvsky,” she said.

He started.

“Madame?”

“Will you come with me for a ride into the desert?”

His face was flooded with scarlet, and he came a step forward, looking up at her.

“I!” he said with an accent of infinite surprise.

“Yes.  Will you?”

The chestnut thundered up and was pulled sharply back on its haunches.  Androvsky shot a sideways glance at it and hesitated.  Domini thought he was going to refuse and wished she had not asked him, wished it passionately.

“Never mind,” she said, almost brutally in her vexation at what she had done.

“Batouch!”

The poet was about to spring upon the horse when Androvsky caught him by the arm.

“I will go,” he said.

Batouch looked vicious.  “But Monsieur told me he did not——­”

He stopped.  The hand on his arm had given him a wrench that made him feel as if his flesh were caught between steel pincers.  Androvsky came up to the chestnut.

“Oh, it’s an Arab saddle,” said Domini.

“It does not matter, Madame.”

His face was stern.

“Are you accustomed to them?”

“It makes no difference.”

He took hold of the rein and put his foot in the high stirrup, but so awkwardly that he kicked the horse in the side.  It plunged.

“Take care!” said Domini.

Androvsky hung on, and climbed somehow into the saddle, coming down in it heavily, with a thud.  The horse, now thoroughly startled, plunged furiously and lashed out with its hind legs.  Androvsky was thrown forward against the high red peak of the saddle with his hands on the animal’s neck.  There was a struggle.  He tugged at the rein violently.  The horse jumped back, reared, plunged sideways as if about to bolt.  Androvsky was shot off and fell on his right shoulder heavily.  Batouch caught the horse while Androvsky got up.  He was white with dust.  There was even dust on his face and in his short hair.  He looked passionate.

“You see,” Batouch began, speaking to Domini, “that Monsieur cannot—­”

“Give me the rein!” said Androvsky.