“Sidi-Zerzour!” she exclaimed. “Monsieur Androvsky, do you know where we are? This is the famous Sidi-Zerzour, where the great warrior is buried, and where the Arabs make pilgrimages to worship at his tomb.”
“Yes, Madame.”
He answered in a low voice.
“As we are here we ought to see. Do you know, I think we must yield to honest Mustapha and have dejeuner in the garden. It is twelve o’clock and I am hungry. We might visit the mosque afterwards and ride home in the afternoon.”
He sat there hunched up on the horse and looked at her in silent hesitation, while the Arabs stood round staring.
“You’d rather not?”
She spoke quietly. He shook his feet out of the stirrups. A number of brown hands and arms shot forth to help him. Domini turned back into the cabaret. She heard a tornado of voices outside, a horse neighing and trampling, a scuffling of feet, but she did not glance round. In about three minutes Androvsky joined her. He was limping slightly and bending forward more than ever. Behind the counter on which stood the absinthe bottle was a tarnished mirror, and she saw him glance quickly, almost guiltily into it, put up his hands and try to brush the dust from his hair, his shoulders.
“Let me do it,” she said abruptly. “Turn round.”
He obeyed without a word, turning his back to her. With her two hands, which were covered with soft, loose suede gloves, she beat and brushed the dust from his coat. He stood quite still while she did it. When she had finished she said:
“There, that’s better.”