They had reached the end of the little street.  The whiteness of the great road which stretched straight through the oasis into the desert lay before them, with the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie staring down it in the night.  At right angles was the street of the dancers, narrow, bounded with the low white houses of the ouleds, twinkling with starry lights, humming with voices, throbbing with the clashing music that poured from the rival cafes maures, thronged with the white figures of the desert men, strolling slowly, softly as panthers up and down.  The moonlight was growing brighter, as if invisible hands began to fan the white flame of passion which lit up Beni-Mora.  A patrol of Tirailleurs Indigenes passed by going up the street, in yellow and blue uniforms, turbans and white gaiters, their rifles over their broad shoulders.  The faint tramp of their marching feet was just audible on the sandy road.

“Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,” said Domini, rather maliciously.  “Let us follow the soldiers.”

Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he would like to strangle her.

“I am afraid of nothing,” he exclaimed proudly.  “Madame does not know Hadj-ben-Ibrahim.”

Batouch laughed soundlessly, shaking his great shoulders.  It was evident that he had divined his cousin’s wish to supplant him and was busily taking his revenge.  Domini was amused, and as they went slowly up the street in the wake of the soldiers she said: 

“Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?”

“Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone.  But with ladies—­”

“You were here last night, weren’t you, with the traveller from the hotel?”

“No, Madame.  The Monsieur of the hotel preferred to visit the cafe of the story-teller, which is far more interesting.  If Madame will permit me to take her—­”

But this last assault was too much for the poet’s philosophy.  He suddenly threw off all pretence of graceful calm, and poured out upon Hadj a torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with passionate gestures which filled Suzanne with horror and Domini with secret delight.  She liked this abrupt unveiling of the raw.  There had always lurked in her an audacity, a quick spirit of adventure more boyish than feminine.  She had reached the age of thirty-two without ever gratifying it, or even fully realising how much she longed to gratify it.  But now she began to understand it and to feel that it was imperious.

“I have a barbarian in me,” she thought.

“Batouch!” she said sharply.

The poet turned a distorted face to her.

“Madame!”

“That will do.  Take us to the dancing-house.”

Batouch shot a last ferocious glance at Hadj and they went on into the crowd of strolling men.