All this information, not wholly devoid of a naive egoism, Batouch poured forth gently and melodiously as they walked through the twilight in the tunnel.  And Domini was quite content to listen.  The strange names the poet mentioned, his liquid pronunciation of them, his allusions to wild events that had happened long ago in desert places, and to the lives of priests of his old religion, of fanatics, and girls who rode on camels caparisoned in red to the dancing-houses of Sahara cities—­all these things cradled her humour at this moment and seemed to plant her, like a mimosa tree, deep down in this sand garden of the sun.

She had forgotten her bitter sensation in the railway carriage when it was recalled to her mind by an incident that clashed with her present mood.

Steps sounded on the path behind them, going faster than they were, and presently Domini saw her fellow-traveller striding along, accompanied by a young Arab who was carrying the green bag.  The stranger was looking straight before him down the tunnel, and he went by swiftly.  But his guide had something to say to Batouch, and altered his pace to keep beside them for a moment.  He was a very thin, lithe, skittish-looking youth, apparently about twenty-three years old, with a chocolate-brown skin, high cheek bones, long, almond-shaped eyes twinkling with dissipated humour, and a large mouth that smiled showing pointed white teeth.  A straggling black moustache sprouted on his upper lip, and long coarse strands of jet-black hair escaped from under the front of a fez that was pushed back on his small head.  His neck was thin and long, and his hands were wonderfully delicate and expressive, with rosy and quite perfect nails.  When he laughed he had a habit of throwing his head forward and tucking in his chin, letting the tassel of his fez fall over his temple to left or right.  He was dressed in white with a burnous, and had a many-coloured piece of silk with frayed edges wound about his waist, which was as slim as a young girl’s.

He spoke to Batouch with intense vivacity in Arabic, at the same time shooting glances half-obsequious, half-impudent, wholly and even preternaturally keen and intelligent at Domini.  Batouch replied with the dignified languor that seemed peculiar to him.  The colloquy continued for two or three minutes.  Domini thought it sounded like a quarrel, but she was not accustomed to Arabs’ talk.  Meanwhile, the stranger in front had slackened his pace, and was obviously lingering for his neglectful guide.  Once or twice he nearly stopped, and made a movement as if to turn round.  But he checked it and went on slowly.  His guide spoke more and more vehemently, and suddenly, tucking in his chin and displaying his rows of big and dazzling teeth, burst into a gay and boyish laugh, at the same time shaking his head rapidly.  Then he shot one last sly look at Domini and hurried on, airily swinging the green bag to and fro.  His arms had tiny bones, but they were evidently strong,