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----"
But she was gone, following Androvsky at a slow canter lest she should
frighten his horse by coming up behind it.
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