The howling chorus came up to the tower, with a clash of enormous castanets, and of poles beaten rhythmically together.
“Yi-yi-yi-yi!” went the shrill voices of the women.
The cloud of dust increased, enveloping the lower part of the procession, till the black heads and waving arms emerged as if from a maelstrom. The thunder of the drums was like the thunder of a cataract in which the singers, disappearing towards the village, seemed to be swept away.
The man at Domini’s side raised himself up with a jerk, and all the former fierce timidity and consciousness came back to his face. He turned round, pulled open the door behind him, and took off his hat.
“Excuse me, Madame,” he said. “Bon soir!”
“I am coming too,” Domini answered.
He looked uncomfortable and anxious, hesitated, then, as if driven to do it in spite of himself, plunged downward through the narrow doorway of the tower into the darkness. Domini waited for a moment, listening to the heavy sound of his tread on the wooden stairs. She frowned till her thick eyebrows nearly met and the corners of her lips turned down. Then she followed slowly. When she was on the stairs and the footsteps died away below her she fully realised that for the first time in her life a man had insulted her. Her face felt suddenly very hot, and her lips very dry, and she longed to use her physical strength in a way not wholly feminine. In the hall, among the shrouded furniture, she met the smiling doorkeeper. She stopped.
“Did the gentleman who has just gone out give you his card?” she said abruptly.
The Arab assumed a fawning, servile expression.
“No, Madame, but he is a very good gentleman, and I know well that Monsieur the Count—”