“I know, Madame.”
He beamed on her, and stroked his thick beard with his broad, sunburnt hand. “Everyone in Amara knows, and everyone in the tents. We know, too, how many tents you have, how many servants, how many camels, horses, dogs.”
He broke into a hearty laugh.
“We know what you’ve just had for dinner!”
Domini laughed too.
“Not really!”
“Well, I heard in the camp that it was soup and stewed mutton. But never mind! You must forgive us. We are barbarians! We are sand-rascals! We are ruffians of the sun!”
His laugh was infectious. He leaned back in his chair and shook with the mirth his own remarks had roused.
“We are ruffians of the sun!” he repeated with gusto. “And we must be forgiven everything.”
Although clad in a soutane he looked, at that moment, like a type of the most joyous tolerance, and Domini could not help mentally comparing him with the priest of Beni-Mora. What would Father Roubier think of Father Beret?