“Let us buy our oasis,” he said abruptly. “Build our African house, sell our dates and remain in the desert. I hear Batouch. It must be time to ride on to Mogar. Batouch! Batouch!”
Batouch came from the courtyard of the house wiping the remains of a cous-cous from his languid lips.
“Untie the horses,” said Androvsky.
“But, Monsieur, it is still too hot to travel. Look! No one is stirring. All the village is asleep.”
He waved his enormous hand, with henna-tinted nails, towards the distant town, carved surely out of one huge piece of bronze.
“Untie the horses. There are gazelle in the plain near Mogar. Didn’t you tell me?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but—”
“We’ll get there early and go out after them at sunset. Now, Domini.”
They rode away in the burning heat of the noon towards the southwest across the vast plains of grey sand, followed at a short distance by Batouch and Ali.
“Monsieur is mad to start in the noon,” grumbled Batouch. “But Monsieur is not like Madame. He may live in the desert till he is old and his hair is grey as the sand, but he will never be an Arab in his heart.”