officers quartered there—­few in number, some five or six—­would find them in the sand, and that Androvsky would offer them hospitality.  It occurred to her that it was not quite wholesome for a man to live in isolation from his fellow-men, even with the woman he loved, and she determined that she would not be selfish in her love, that she would think for Androvsky, act for him, even against her own inclination.  Perhaps his idea of life in an oasis apart from Europeans was one she ought to combat, though it fascinated her.  Perhaps it would be stronger, more sane, to face a more ordinary, less dreamy, life, in which they would meet with people, in which they would inevitably find themselves confronted with duties.  She felt powerful enough in that moment to do anything that would make for Androvsky’s welfare 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