Domini stood for a moment under the palm trees looking after them. There was a steady shining in her eyes. “Madame is a Catholic too?” asked Batouch, staring steadily at her. Domini nodded. She did not want to discuss religion with an Arab minor poet just then. “Take me to the market,” she said, mindful of her secret resolve to get rid of her companion as soon as possible. They set out across the gardens. It was a celestial day. All the clear, untempered light of the world seemed to have made its home in Beni-Mora. Yet the heat was not excessive, for the glorious strength of the sun was robbed of its terror, its possible brutality, by the bright and feathery dryness and coolness of the airs. She stepped out briskly. Her body seemed suddenly to become years younger, full of elasticity and radiant strength. “Madame is very strong. Madame walks like a Bedouin.” Batouch’s voice sounded seriously astonished, and Domini burst out laughing. “In England there are many strong women. But I shall grow stronger here. I shall become a real Arab. This air gives me life.” They were just reaching the road when there was a clatter of hoofs, and a Spahi, mounted on a slim white horse, galloped past at a tremendous pace, holding his reins high above the red peak of his saddle and staring up at the sun. Domini looked after him with critical admiration. “You’ve got some good horses here,” she said when the Spahi had disappeared. “Madame knows how to ride?” She laughed again. “I’ve ridden ever since I was a child.” “You can buy a fine horse here for sixteen pounds,” remarked Batouch, using the pronoun “tu,” as is the custom of the Arabs. “Find me a good horse, a horse with spirit, and I’ll buy him,” Domini said. “I want to go far out in the desert, far away from everything.” “You must not go alone.” “Why not?” “There are bandits in the desert.” “I’ll take my revolver,” Domini said carelessly. “But I will go alone.” They were in sight of the market now, and the hum of voices came to them, with nasal cries, the whine of praying beggars, and the fierce braying of donkeys. At the end of the small street in which they were Domini saw a wide open space, in the centre of which stood a quantity of pillars supporting a peaked roof. Round the sides of the square were arcades swarming with Arabs, and under the central roof a mob of figures came and went, as flies go and come on a piece of meat flung out into a sunny place. “What a quantity of people! Do they all live in Beni-Mora?” she asked. “No, they come from all parts of the desert to sell and to buy. But most of those who sell are Mozabites.”