“I want the desert and you in it,” he said.  “The lonely desert, with you.”

“And nothing else?”

“I want that.  I cannot have that taken from me.”

He looked about him quickly from side to side as they rode up the street, as if he were a scout sent in advance of an army and suspected ambushes.  His manner reminded her of the way he had looked towards the tower as they rode into Mogar.  And he had connected that tower with the French.  She remembered his saying to her that it must have been built for French soldiers.  As they rode into Mogar he had dreaded something in Mogar.  The strange incident with De Trevignac had followed.  She had put it from her mind as a matter of small, or no, importance, had resolutely forgotten it, had been able to forget it in their dream of desert life and desert passion.  But the entry into a city for the moment destroyed the dreamlike atmosphere woven by the desert, recalled her town sense, that quick-wittedness, that sharpness of apprehension and swiftness of observation which are bred in those who have long been accustomed to a life in the midst of crowds and movement, and changing scenes and passing fashions.  Suddenly she seemed to herself to be reading Androvsky with an almost merciless penetration, which yet she could not check.  He had dreaded something in Mogar.  He dreaded something here in Amara.  An unusual incident—­for the coming of a stranger into their lives out of their desolation of the sand was unusual—­had followed close upon the first dread.  Would another such incident follow upon this second dread?  And of what was this dread born?

Batouch drew her attention to the fact that they were coming to the marketplace, and to the curious crowds of people who were swarming out of the tortuous, narrow streets into the main thoroughfare to watch them pass, or to accompany them, running beside their horses.  She divined at once, by the passionate curiosity their entry aroused, that he had misspent his leisure in spreading through the city lying reports of their immense importance and fabulous riches.

“Batouch,” she said, “you have been talking about us.”

“No, Madame, I merely said that Madame is a great lady in her own land, and that Monsieur—­”

“I forbid you ever to speak about me, Batouch,” said Androvsky, brusquely.

He seemed worried by the clamour of the increasing mob that surrounded them.  Children in long robes like night-gowns skipped before them, calling out in shrill voices.  Old beggars, with diseased eyes and deformed limbs, laid filthy hands upon their bridles and demanded alms.  Impudent boys, like bronze statuettes suddenly endowed with a fury of life, progressed backwards to keep them full in view, shouting information at them and proclaiming their own transcendent virtues as guides.  Lithe desert men, almost naked, but with carefully-covered heads, strode beside them, keeping pace with the horses, saying nothing, but watching them with a bright intentness that seemed to hint at unutterable designs.  And towards them, through the air that seemed heavy and almost suffocating now that they were among buildings, and through clouds of buzzing flies, came the noise of the larger tumult of the market-place.