When Domini reached the camp she found it in a bustle. Batouch, resigned to the inevitable, had put the cook upon his mettle. Ouardi was already to be seen with a bottle of Pommery in each hand, and was only prevented from instantly uncorking them by the representations of his mistress and an elaborate exposition of the peculiar and evanescent virtues of champagne. Ali was humming a mysterious song about a lovesick camel-man, with which he intended to make glad the hearts of the assembly when the halting time was over. And the dining-table was already set for three.
When Androvsky rode in with the Arabs Domini met him at the edge of the hill.
“You saw my signal, Boris?”
“Yes—”
He was going to say more, when she interrupted him eagerly.
“Have you any gazelle? Ah——”
Across the mule of one of the Arabs she saw a body drooping, a delicate head with thin, pointed horns, tiny legs with exquisite little feet that moved as the mule moved.
“We shall want it to-night. Take it quickly to the cook’s tent, Ahmed.” Androvsky got off his mule.
“There’s a light in the tower!” he said, looking at her and then dropping his eyes.
“Yes.”