"How can that be?" asked Domini.

"Shal-lah. It is the will of God. One remembers nothing any more."

His eyes were fixed upon the gigantic pinnacles of the rocks. There was
something fanatical and highly imaginative in their gaze.

"What is your name?" Domini asked.

"Batouch, Madame. You are going to Beni-Mora?"

"Yes, Batouch."

"I too. To-night, under the mimosa trees, I shall compose a poem. It
will be addressed to Irena, the dancing-girl. She is like the little
moon when it first comes up above the palm trees."

Just then the train from Beni-Mora ran into the station, and Domini
turned to seek her carriage. As she was coming to it she noticed, with
the pang of the selfish traveller who wishes to be undisturbed, that
a tall man, attended by an Arab porter holding a green bag, was at the
door of it and was evidently about to get in. He glanced round as Domini
came up, half drew back rather awkwardly as if to allow her to precede
him, then suddenly sprang in before her. The Arab lifted in the bag,
and the man, endeavouring hastily to thrust some money into his hand,
dropped the coin, which fell down between the step of the carriage
and the platform. The Arab immediately made a greedy dive after it,
interposing his body between Domini and the train; and she was obliged
to stand waiting while he looked for it, grubbing frantically in
the earth with his brown fingers, and uttering muffled exclamations,