“It does not matter, Madame.” His face was stern. “Are you accustomed to them?” “It makes no difference.” He took hold of the rein and put his foot in the high stirrup, but so awkwardly that he kicked the horse in the side. It plunged. “Take care!” said Domini. Androvsky hung on, and climbed somehow into the saddle, coming down in it heavily, with a thud. The horse, now thoroughly startled, plunged furiously and lashed out with its hind legs. Androvsky was thrown forward against the high red peak of the saddle with his hands on the animal’s neck. There was a struggle. He tugged at the rein violently. The horse jumped back, reared, plunged sideways as if about to bolt. Androvsky was shot off and fell on his right shoulder heavily. Batouch caught the horse while Androvsky got up. He was white with dust. There was even dust on his face and in his short hair. He looked passionate. “You see,” Batouch began, speaking to Domini, “that Monsieur cannot--” “Give me the rein!” said Androvsky. There was a sound in his deep voice that was terrible. He was looking not at Domini, but at the priest, who stood a little aside with an expression of concern on his face. Bous-Bous barked with excitement at the conflict. Androvsky took the rein, and, with a sort of furious determination, sprang into the saddle and pressed his legs against the horse’s flanks. It reared up. The priest moved back under the palm trees, the Arab boys scattered. Batouch sought the shelter of the arcade, and the horse, with a short, whining neigh that was like a cry of temper, bolted between the trunks of the trees, heading for the desert, and disappeared in a flash. “He will be killed,” said the priest. Bous-Bous barked frantically. “It is his own fault,” said the poet. “He told me himself just now that he did not know how to ride.” “Why didn’t you tell me so?” Domini exclaimed. “Madame----”