He thrust a packet of discoloured papers and dirty visiting-cards into her hands.  She dropped them, laughing, and they floated down over the horse’s neck.  The man leaped frantically to pick them up, assisted by the robbers round about.  A second caravan of camels appeared, preceded by some filthy men in rags, who cried, “Oosh! oosh!” to clear the way.  The immense man, brandishing his recovered certificates, plunged forward to encounter them, shouting in Arabic, hustled them back, kicked them, struck at the camels with a stick till those in front receded upon those behind and the street was blocked by struggling beasts and resounded with roaring snarls, the thud of wooden bales clashing together, and the desperate protests of the camel-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: