surface the fluid poetry within him, but Domini rode on, descending towards the city gate by which she had first entered Amara.  The priest’s house was there and Androvsky was with the priest.  She hoped he had perhaps gone in to return the visit paid to them.  As she rode into the city she glanced at the house.  The door was open and she saw the gay rugs in the little hall.  She had a strong inclination to stop and ask if her husband were there.  He might mount Batouch’s horse and accompany her home.

“Batouch,” she said, “will you ask if Monsieur Androvsky is with Pere Beret.  I think—­”

She stopped speaking.  She had just seen her husband’s face pass across the window-space of the room on the right-hand side of the hall door.  She could not see it very well.  The arcade built out beyond the house cast a deep shade within, and in this shade the face had flitted like a shadow.  Batouch had sprung from his horse.  But the sight of the shadowy face had changed her mind.  She resolved not to interrupt the two men.  Long ago at Beni-Mora she had asked Androvsky to call upon a priest.  She remembered the sequel to that visit.  This time Androvsky had gone of his own will.  If he liked this priest, if they became friends, perhaps—­she remembered her vision in the dancing-house, her feeling that when she drew near Amara she was drawing near to the heart of the desert.  If she should see Androvsky praying here!  Yet Father Beret hardly seemed a man likely to influence her husband, or anyone with a strong and serious personality.  He was surely too fond of the things of this world, too obviously a lover and cherisher of the body.  Nevertheless, there was something attractive in him, a kindness, a geniality.  In trouble he would be sympathetic.  Certainly her husband must have taken a liking to him, and the chances of life and the influences of destiny were strange and not to be foreseen.

“No, Batouch,” she said.  “We won’t stop.”

“But, Madame,” he cried, “Monsieur is in there.  I saw his face at the window.”

“Never mind.  We won’t disturb them.  I daresay they have something to talk about.”

They cantered on towards the market-place.  It was not market-day, and the town, like the camp of the Ouled Nails, was almost deserted.  As she rode up the hill towards the place of the fountain, however, she saw two handsomely-dressed Arabs, followed by a servant, slowly strolling towards her from the doorway of the Bureau Arabe.  One, who was very tall, was dressed in green, and carried a long staff, from which hung green ribbons.  The other wore a more ordinary costume of white, with a white burnous and a turban spangled with gold.

“Madame!” said Batouch.

“Yes.”

“Do you see the Arab dressed in green?”

He spoke in an almost awestruck voice.

“Yes.  Who is he?”

“The great marabout who lives at Beni-Hassan.”

The name struck upon Domini’s ear with a strange familiarity.