“It will deafen Madame’s ears if she gets nearer,” said Hadj, eagerly. “And the dancers are not for Madame. For the Arabs, yes, but for a great lady of the most respectable England! Madame will be red with disgust, with anger. Madame will have _mal-au-coeur_.” Batouch began to look like an idol on whose large face the artificer had carved an expression of savage ferocity. “Madame is my client,” he said fiercely. “Madame trusts in me.” Hadj laughed with a snarl: “He who smokes the keef is like a Mehari with a swollen tongue,” he rejoined. The poet looked as if he were going to spring upon his cousin, but he restrained himself and a slow, malignant smile curled about his thick lips like a snake. “I shall show to Madame a dancer who is modest, who is beautiful, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim,” he said softly. “Fatma is sick,” said Hadj, quickly. “It will not be Fatma.” Hadj began suddenly to gesticulate with his thin, delicate hands and to look fiercely excited. “Halima is at the Fontaine Chaude,” he cried. “Keltoum will be there.” “She will not. Her foot is sick. She cannot dance. For a week she will not dance. I know it.” “And--Irena? Is she sick? Is she at the Hammam Salahine?” Hadj’s countenance fell. He looked at his cousin sideways, always showing his teeth. “Do you not know, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?” “_Ana ma ‘audi ma nek oul lek!_“[*] growled Hadj in his throat. [*] “I have nothing to say to you.” They had reached the end of the little street. The whiteness of the great road which stretched straight through the oasis into the desert lay before them, with the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie staring down it in the night. At right angles was the street of the dancers, narrow, bounded with the low white houses of the ouleds, twinkling with starry lights, humming with voices, throbbing with the clashing music that poured from the rival _cafés maures_, thronged with the white figures of the desert men, strolling slowly, softly as panthers up and down. The moonlight was growing brighter, as if invisible hands began to fan the white flame of passion which lit up Beni-Mora. A patrol of Tirailleurs Indigenes passed by going up the street, in yellow and blue uniforms, turbans and white gaiters, their rifles over their broad shoulders. The faint tramp of their marching feet was just audible on the sandy road. “Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,” said Domini, rather maliciously. “Let us follow the soldiers.” Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he would like to strangle her. “I am afraid of nothing,” he exclaimed proudly. “Madame does not know Hadj-ben-Ibrahim.” Batouch laughed soundlessly, shaking his great shoulders. It was evident that he had divined his cousin’s wish to supplant him and was busily taking his revenge. Domini was amused, and as they went slowly up the street in the wake of the soldiers she said: “Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?”