Hadj squared his shoulders and instantly looked vivacious and almost smart. But an undecided expression came into his face. “Where is Madame going?” “To see the village.” Batouch shot a glance at Hadj and smiled unpleasantly. “I will come with Madame.” Batouch still smiled. “We are going to the Ouled Nails,” he said significantly to Hadj. “I--I will come.” They set out. Suzanne looked gently at the poet’s legs and seemed comforted. “Take great care of Mademoiselle Suzanne,” Domini said to the poet. “She is a little nervous in the dark.” “Mademoiselle Suzanne is like the first day after the fast of Ramadan,” replied the poet, majestically. “No one would harm her were she to wander alone to Tombouctou.” The prospect drew from Suzanne a startled gulp. Batouch placed himself tenderly at her side and they set out, Domini walking behind with Hadj. CHAPTER VIII The village was full of the wan presage of the coming of the moon. The night was very still and very warm. As they skirted the long gardens Domini saw a light in the priest’s house. It made her wonder how he passed his solitary evenings when he went home from the hotel, and she fancied him sitting in some plainly-furnished little room with Bous-Bous and a few books, smoking a pipe and thinking sadly of the White Fathers of Africa and of his frustrated desire for complete renunciation. With this last thought blended the still remote sound of the hautboy. It suggested anything rather than renunciation; mysterious melancholy--successor to passion--the cry of longing, the wail of the unknown that draws some men and women to splendid follies and to ardent pilgrimages whose goal is the mirage. Hadj was talking in a low voice, but Domini did not listen to him. She was vaguely aware that he was abusing Batouch, saying that he was a liar, inclined to theft, a keef smoker, and in a general way steeped to the lips in crime. But the moon was rising, the distant music was becoming more distinct. She could not listen to Hadj.