CHAPTER XX
When Domini reached the camp she found it in a bustle. Batouch, resignedto the inevitable, had put the cook upon his mettle. Ouardi was alreadyto be seen with a bottle of Pommery in each hand, and was only preventedfrom instantly uncorking them by the representations of his mistressand an elaborate exposition of the peculiar and evanescent virtues ofchampagne. Ali was humming a mysterious song about a lovesick camel-man,with which he intended to make glad the hearts of the assembly when thehalting time was over. And the dining-table was already set for three.
When Androvsky rode in with the Arabs Domini met him at the edge of thehill.
"You saw my signal, Boris?"
"Yes--"
He was going to say more, when she interrupted him eagerly.
"Have you any gazelle? Ah----"
Across the mule of one of the Arabs she saw a body drooping, a delicatehead with thin, pointed horns, tiny legs with exquisite little feet thatmoved as the mule moved.
"We shall want it to-night. Take it quickly to the cook's tent, Ahmed."Androvsky got off his mule.
"There's a light in the tower!" he said, looking at her and thendropping his eyes.
"Yes."
"And I saw two signals. There were two brands being waved together."
"To-night, we have comrades in the desert."
"Comrades!" he said.
His voice sounded startled.
"Men who have escaped from a horrible death in the dunes."
"Arabs?"
"French."
Quickly she told him her story. He listened in silence. When she hadfinished he said nothing. But she saw him look at the dining-table laidfor three and his expression was dark and gloomy.
"Boris, you don't mind!" she said in surprise. "Surely you would notrefuse hospitality to these poor fellows!"
She put her hand through his arm and pressed it.
"Have I done wrong? But I know I haven't!"
"Wrong! How could you do that?"
He seemed to make an effort, to conquer something within him.
"It's I who am wrong, Domini. The truth is, I can't bear our happinessto be intruded upon even for a night. I want to be alone with you. Thislife of ours in the desert has made me desperately selfish. I want to bealone, quite alone, with you."
"It's that! How glad I am!"
She laid her cheek against his arm.
"Then," he said, "that other signal?"
"Monsieur de Trevignac gave it."
Androvsky took his arm from hers abruptly.
"Monsieur de Trevignac!" he said. "Monsieur de Trevignac?"
He stood as if in deep and anxious thought.
"Yes, the officer. That's his name. What is it, Boris?"
"Nothing."
There was a sound of voices approaching the camp in the darkness. Theywere speaking French.
"I must," said Androvsky, "I must----"
He made an uncertain movement, as if to go towards the dunes, checkedit, and went hurriedly into the dressing-tent. As he disappeared DeTrevignac came into the camp with his men. Batouch conducted the latterwith all ceremony towards the fire which burned before the tents ofthe attendants, and, for the moment, Domini was left alone with DeTrevignac.
"My husband is coming directly," she said. "He was late in returning,but he brought gazelle. Now you must sit down at once."
She led the way to the dining-tent. De Trevignac glanced at the tablelaid for three with an eager anticipation which he was far too naturalto try to conceal.
"Madame," he said, "if I disgrace myself to-night, if I eat like an ogrein a fairy tale, will you forgive me?"
"I will not forgive you if you don't."
She spoke gaily, made him sit down in a folding-chair, and insistedon putting a soft cushion at his back. Her manner was cheerful, almosteagerly kind and full of a camaraderie rare in a woman, yet he noticed achange in her since they stood together waving the brands by the tower.And he said to himself:
"The husband--perhaps he's not so pleased at my appearance. I wonder howlong they've been married?"
And he felt his curiosity to see "Monsieur Androvsky" deepen.
While they waited for him Domini made De Trevignac tell her the story ofhis terrible adventure in the dunes. He did so simply, like a soldier,without exaggeration. When he had finished she said:
"You thought death was certain then?"
"Quite certain, Madame."
She looked at him earnestly.
"To have faced a death like that in utter desolation, utter loneliness,must make life seem very different afterwards."
"Yes, Madame. But I did not feel utterly alone."
"Your men!"
"No, Madame."
After a pause he added, simply:
"My mother is a devout Catholic, Madame. I am her only child, and--shetaught me long ago that in any peril one is never quite alone."
Domini's heart warmed to him. She loved this trust in God so franklyshown by a soldier, member of an African regiment, in this wild land.She loved this brave reliance on the unseen in the midst of the terrorof the seen. Before they spoke again Androvsky crossed the dark spacebetween the tents and came slowly into the circle of the lamplight.
De Trevignac got up from his chair, and Domini introduced the two men.As they bowed each shot a swift glance at the other. Then Androvskylooked down, and two vertical lines appeared on his high forehead abovehis eyebrows. They gave to his face a sudden look of acute distress. DeTrevignac thanked him for his proffered hospitality with the ease of aman of the world, assuming that the kind invitation to him and to hismen came from the husband as well as from the wife. When he had finishedspeaking, Androvsky, without looking up, said, in a voice that soundedto Domini new, as if he had deliberately assumed it:
"I am glad, Monsieur. We found gazelle, and so I hope--I hope you willhave a fairly good dinner."
The words could scarcely have been more ordinary, but the way in whichthey were uttered was so strange, sounded indeed so forced, and sounnatural, that both De Trevignac and Domini looked at the speaker insurprise. There was a pause. Then Batouch and Ouardi came in with thesoup.
"Come!" Domini said. "Let us begin. Monsieur de Trevignac, will you sithere on my right?"
They sat down. The two men were opposite to each other at the ends ofthe small table, with a lamp between them. Domini faced the tent door,and could see in the distance the tents of the attendants lit up by theblaze of the fire, and the forms of the French soldiers sitting at theirtable close to it, with the Arabs clustering round them. Sounds of loudconversation and occasional roars of laughter, that was almost childishin its frank lack of all restraint, told her that one feast was asuccess. She looked at her companions and made a sudden resolve--almostfierce--that the other, over which she was presiding, should be asuccess, too. But why was Androvsky so strange with other men? Why didhe seem to become almost a different human being directly he was broughtinto any close contact with his kind? Was it shyness? Had he a profoundhatred of all society? She remembered Count Anteoni's luncheon andthe distress Androvsky had caused her by his cold embarrassment, hisunwillingness to join in conversation on that occasion. But then hewas only her friend. Now he was her husband. She longed for him to showhimself at his best. That he was not a man of the world she knew. Had henot told her of his simple upbringing in El Kreir, a remote village ofTunisia, by a mother who had been left in poverty after the death ofhis father, a Russian who had come to Africa to make a fortune byvine-growing, and who had had his hopes blasted by three years ofdrought and by the visitation of the dreaded phylloxera? Had he not toldher of his own hard work on the rich uplands among the Spanish workmen,of how he had toiled early and late in all kinds of weather, not forhimself, but for a company that drew a fortune from the land and gavehim a bare livelihood? Till she met him he had never travelled--he hadnever seen almost anything of life. A legacy from a relative had at lastenabled him to have some freedom and to gratify a man's natural tastefor chang
e. And, strangely, perhaps, he had come first to the desert.She could not--she did not--expect him to show the sort of easycultivation that a man acquires only by long contact with all sorts andconditions of men and women. But she knew that he was not only full offire and feeling--a man with a great temperament, but also that he was aman who had found time to study, whose mind was not empty. He was a manwho had thought profoundly. She knew this, although even with her, evenin the great intimacy that is born of a great mutual passion, she knewhim for a man of naturally deep reserve, who could not perhaps speak allhis thoughts to anyone, even to the woman he loved. And knowing this,she felt a fighting temper rise up in her. She resolved to use her willupon this man who loved her, to force him to show his best side to theguest who had come to them out of the terror of the dunes. She would beobstinate for him.
Her lips went down a little at the corners. De Trevignac glanced at herabove his soup-plate, and then at Androvsky. He was a man who hadseen much of society, and who divined at once the gulf that must haveseparated the kind of life led in the past by his hostess from thekind of life led by his host. Such gulfs, he knew, are bridged withdifficulty. In this case a great love must have been the bridge. Hisinterest in these two people, encountered by him in the desolation ofthe wastes, and when all his emotions had been roused by the nearnessof peril, would have been deep in any case. But there was something thatmade it extraordinary, something connected with Androvsky. It seemed tohim that he had seen, perhaps known Androvsky at some time in his life.Yet Androvsky's face was not familiar to him. He could not yet tell fromwhat he drew this impression, but it was strong. He searched his memory.
Just at first fatigue was heavy upon him, but the hot soup, the firstglass of wine revived him. When Domini, full of her secret obstinacy,began to talk gaily he was soon able easily to take his part, and tojoin her in her effort to include Androvsky in the conversation. Thecheerful noise of the camp came to them from without.
"I'm afraid my men are lifting up their voices rather loudly," said DeTrevignac.
"We like it," said Domini. "Don't we, Boris?"
There was a long peal of laughter from the distance. As it died awayBatouch's peculiar guttural chuckle, which had something negroid init, was audible, prolonging itself in a loneliness that spoke hispertinacious sense of humour.
"Certainly," said Androvsky, still in the same strained and unnaturalvoice which had surprised Domini when she introduced the two men. "Weare accustomed to gaiety round the camp fire."
"You are making a long stay in the desert, Monsieur?" asked DeTrevignac.
"I hope so, Monsieur. It depends on my--it depends on Madame Androvsky."
"Why didn't he say 'my wife'?" thought De Trevignac. And again hesearched his memory. "Had he ever met this man? If so, where?"
"I should like to stay in the desert for ever," Domini said quickly,with a long look at her husband.
"I should not, Madame," De Trevignac said.
"I understand. The desert has shown you its terrors."
"Indeed it has."
"But to us it has only shown its enchantment. Hasn't it?" She spoke toAndrovsky. After a pause he replied:
"Yes."
The word, when it came, sounded like a lie.
For the first time since her marriage Domini felt a cold, like a cold ofice about her heart. Was it possible that Androvsky had not shared herjoy in the desert? Had she been alone in her happiness? For a moment shesat like one stunned by a blow. Then knowledge, reason, spoke in her.She knew of Androvsky's happiness with her, knew it absolutely. Thereare some things in which a woman cannot be deceived. When Androvskywas with her he wanted no other human being. Nothing could take thatcertainty from her.
"Of course," she said, recovered, "there are places in the desert inwhich melancholy seems to brood, in which one has a sense of the terrorsof the wastes. Mogar, I think, is one of them, perhaps the only one wehave been in yet. This evening, when I was sitting under the tower, evenI"--and as she said "even I" she smiled happily at Androvsky--"knew someforebodings."
"Forebodings?" Androvsky said quickly. "Why should you--?" He broke off.
"Not of coming misfortune, I hope, Madame?" said De Trevignac in a voicethat was now irresistibly cheerful.
He was helping himself to some gazelle, which sent forth an appetisingodour, and Ouardi was proudly pouring out for him the first glass ofblithely winking champagne.
"I hardly know, but everything looked sad and strange; I began to thinkabout the uncertainties of life."
Domini and De Trevignac were sipping their champagne. Ouardi came behindAndrovsky to fill his glass.
"Non! non!" he said, putting his hand over it and shaking his head.
De Trevignac started.
Ouardi looked at Domini and made a distressed grimace, pointing with abrown finger at the glass.
"Oh, Boris! you must drink champagne to-night!" she exclaimed.
"I would rather not," he answered. "I am not accustomed to it."
"But to drink our guest's health after his escape from death!"
Androvsky took his hand from the glass and Ouardi filled it with wine.
Then Domini raised her glass and drank to De Trevignac. Androvskyfollowed her example, but without geniality, and when he put his lipsto the wine he scarcely tasted it. Then he put the glass down and toldOuardi to give him red wine. And during the rest of the evening he drankno more champagne. He also ate very little, much less than usual, for inthe desert they both had the appetites of hunters.
After thanking them cordially for drinking his health, De Trevignacsaid:
"I was nearly experiencing the certainty of death. But was it Mogar thatturned you to such thoughts, Madame?"
"I think so. There is something sad, even portentous about it."
She looked towards the tent door, imagining the immense desolation thatwas hidden in the darkness outside, the white plains, the mirage sea,the sand dunes like monsters, the bleached bones of the dead camels withthe eagles hovering above them.
"Don't you think so, Boris? Don't you think it looks like a place inwhich--like a tragic place, a place in which tragedies ought to occur?"
"It is not places that make tragedies," he said, "or at least they maketragedies far more seldom than the people in them."
He stopped, seemed to make an effort to throw off his taciturnity,and suddenly to be able to throw it off, at least partially. For hecontinued speaking with greater naturalness and ease, even with acertain dominating force.
"If people would use their wills they need not be influenced by place,they need not be governed by a thousand things, by memories, by fears,by fancies--yes, even by fancies that are the merest shadows, but out ofwhich they make phantoms. Half the terrors and miseries of life lie onlyin the minds of men. They even cause the very tragedies they would avoidby expecting them."
He said the last words with a sort of strong contempt--then, morequietly, he added:
"You, Domini, why should you feel the uncertainty of life, especiallyat Mogar? You need not. You can choose not to. Life is the same in itschances here as everywhere?"
"But you," she answered--"did you not feel a tragic influence when wearrived here? Do you remember how you looked at the tower?"
"The tower!" he said, with a quick glance at De Trevignac. "I--whyshould I look at the tower?"
"I don't know, but you did, almost as if you were afraid of it."
"My tower!" said De Trevignac.
Another roar of laughter reached them from the camp fire. It made Dominismile in sympathy, but De Trevignac and Androvsky looked at each otherfor a moment, the one with a sort of earnest inquiry, the other withhostility, or what seemed hostility, across the circle of lamplight thatlay between them.
"A tower rising in the desert emphasises the desolation. I suppose thatwas it," Androvsky said, as the laugh died down into Batouch's throatychuckle. "It suggests lonely people watching."
"For something that never comes, or something terrible that
comes," DeTrevignac said.
As he spoke the last words Androvsky moved uneasily in his chair, andlooked out towards the camp, as if he longed to get up and go into theopen air, as if the tent roof above his head oppressed him.
Trevignac turned to Domini.
"In this case, Madame, you were the lonely watcher, and I was thesomething terrible that came."
She laughed. While she laughed De Trevignac noticed that Androvskylooked at her with a sort of sad intentness, not reproachful orwondering, as an older person might look at a child playing at the edgeof some great gulf into which a false step would precipitate it. Hestrove to interpret this strange look, so obviously born in the face ofhis host in connection with himself. It seemed to him that he must havemet Androvsky, and that Androvsky knew it, knew--what he did not yetknow--where it was and when. It seemed to him, too, that Androvskythought of him as the "something terrible" that had come to this womanwho sat between them out of the desert.
But how could it be?
A profound curiosity was roused in him and he mentally cursed histreacherous memory--if it were treacherous. For possibly he might bemistaken. He had perhaps never met his host before, and this strangemanner of his might be due to some inexplicable cause, or perhaps tosome cause explicable and even commonplace. This Monsieur Androvskymight be a very jealous man, who had taken this woman away into thedesert to monopolise her, and who resented even the chance intrusion ofa stranger. De Trevignac knew life and the strange passions of men, knewthat there are Europeans with the Arab temperament, who secretly longthat their women should wear the veil and live secluded in the harem.Androvsky might be one of these.
When she had laughed Domini said:
"On the contrary, Monsieur, you have turned my thoughts into a happiercurrent by your coming."
"How so?"
"You made me think of what are called the little things of life that aremore to us women than to you men, I suppose."
"Ah," he said. "This food, this wine, this chair with a cushion, thisgay light--Madame, they are not little things I have to be grateful for.When I think of the dunes they seem to me--they seem--"
Suddenly he stopped. His gay voice was choked. She saw that there weretears in his blue eyes, which were fixed on her with an expression ofardent gratitude. He cleared his throat.
"Monsieur," he said to Androvsky, "you will not think me presuming on anacquaintance formed in the desert if I say that till the end of my lifeI--and my men--can only think of Madame as of the good Goddess of thedesolate Sahara!"
He did not know how Androvsky would take this remark, he did notcare. For the moment in his impulsive nature there was room only foradmiration of the woman and, gratitude for her frank kindness. Androvskysaid:
"Thank you, Monsieur."
He spoke with an intensity, even a fervour, that were startling. Forthe first time since they had been together his voice was absolutelynatural, his manner was absolutely unconstrained, he showed himself ashe was, a man on fire with love for the woman who had given herself tohim, and who received a warm word of praise of her as a gift made tohimself. De Trevignac no longer wondered that Domini was his wife. Thosethree words, and the way they were spoken, gave him the man and what hemight be in a woman's life. Domini looked at her husband silently. Itseemed to her as if her heart were flooded with light, as if desolateMogar were the Garden of Eden before the angel came. When they spokeagain it was on some indifferent topic. But from that moment the mealwent more merrily. Androvsky seemed to lose his strange uneasiness. DeTrevignac met him more than half-way. Something of the gaiety round thecamp fire had entered into the tent. A chain of sympathy had been forgedbetween these three people. Possibly, a touch might break it, but forthe moment it seemed strong.
At the end of the dinner Domini got up.
"We have no formalities in the desert," she said. "But I'm going toleave you together for a moment. Give Monsieur de Trevignac a cigar,Boris. Coffee is coming directly."
She went out towards the camp fire. She wanted to leave the men togetherto seal their good fellowship. Her husband's change from taciturnity tocordiality had enchanted her. Happiness was dancing within her. She feltgay as a child. Between the fire and the tent she met Ouardi carrying atray. On it were a coffee-pot, cups, little glasses and a tall bottle ofa peculiar shape with a very thin neck and bulging sides.
"What's that, Ouardi?" she asked, touching it with her finger.
"That is an African liqueur, Madame, that you have never tasted. Batouchtold me to bring it in honour of Monsieur the officer. They call it--"
"Another surprise of Batouch's!" she interrupted gaily. "Take it in!Monsieur the officer will think we have quite a cellar in the desert."
He went on, and she stood for a few minutes looking at the blaze of thefire, and at the faces lit up by it, French and Arab. The happy soldierswere singing a French song with a chorus for the delectation of theArabs, who swayed to and fro, wagging their heads and smiling in aneffort to show appreciation of the barbarous music of the Roumis.Dreary, terrible Mogar and its influences were being defied by thewanderers halting in it. She thought of Androvsky's words about thehuman will overcoming the influence of place, and a sudden desirecame to her to go as far as the tower where she had felt sad andapprehensive, to stand in its shadow for an instant and to revel in herhappiness.
She yielded to the impulse, walked to the tower, and stood there facingthe darkness which hid the dunes, the white plains, the phantom sea,seeing them in her mind, and radiantly defying them. Then she began toreturn to the camp, walking lightly, as happy people walk. When she hadgone a very short way she heard someone coming towards her. It was toodark to see who it was. She could only hear the steps among the stones.They were hasty. They passed her and stopped behind her at the tower.She wondered who it was, and supposed it must be one of the soldierscome to fetch something, or perhaps tired and hastening to bed.
As she drew near to the camp she saw the lamplight shining in the tent,where doubtless De Trevignac and Androvsky were smoking and talkingin frank good fellowship. It was like a bright star, she thought, thatgleam of light that shone out of her home, the brightest of all thestars of Africa. She went towards it. As she drew near she expected tohear the voices of the two men, but she heard nothing. Nor did she seethe blackness of their forms in the circle of the light. Perhaps theyhad gone out to join the soldiers and the Arabs round the fire. Shehastened on, came to the tent, entered it, and was confronted by herhusband, who was standing back in an angle formed by the canvas, inthe shadow, alone. On the floor near him lay a quantity of fragments ofglass.
"Boris!" she said. "Where is Monsieur de Trevignac?"
"Gone," replied Androvsky in a loud, firm voice.
She looked up at him. His face was grim and powerful, hard like the faceof a fighting man.
"Gone already? Why?"
"He's tired out. He told me to make his excuses to you."
"But----"
She saw in the table the coffee cups. Two of them were full of coffee.The third, hers, was clean.
"But he hasn't drunk his coffee!" she said.
She was astonished and showed it. She could not understand a man who haddisplayed such warm, even touching, appreciation of her kindness leavingher without a word, taking the opportunity of her momentary absence todisappear, to shirk away--for she put it like that to herself.
"No--he did not want coffee."
"But was anything the matter?"
She looked down at the broken glass, and saw stains upon the groundamong the fragments.
"What's this?" she said. "Oh, the African liqueur!"
Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her with an iron grip, and led heraway out of the tent. They crossed the space to the sleeping-tent insilence. She felt governed, and as if she must yield to his will, butshe also felt confused, even almost alarmed mentally. The sleeping-tentwas dark. When they reached it Androvsky took his arm from her, and sheheard him searching for the matches. She was in the te
nt door and couldsee that there was a light in the tower. De Trevignac must be therealready. No doubt it was he who had passed her in the night when she wasreturning to the camp. Androvsky struck a match and lit a candle. Thenhe came to the tent door and saw her looking at the light in the tower.
"Come in, Domini," he said, taking her by the hand, and speaking gently,but still with a firmness that hinted at command.
She obeyed, and he quickly let down the flap of canvas, and shut out thenight.
"What is it, Boris?" she asked.
She was standing by one of the beds.
"What has happened?"
"Why--happened?"
"I don't understand. Why did Monsieur de Trevignac go away so suddenly?"
"Domini, do you care whether he is here or gone? Do you care?" He sat onthe edge of the bed and drew her down beside him.
"Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren't wehappier alone?"
"Boris!" she said, "you--did you let him see that you wanted him to go?"
It occurred to her suddenly that Androvsky, in his lack of worldlyknowledge, might perhaps have shown their guest that he secretlyresented the intrusion of a stranger upon them even for one evening, andthat De Trevignac, being a sensitive man, had been hurt and had abruptlygone away. Her social sense revolted at this idea.
"You didn't let him see that, Boris!" she exclaimed. "After his escapefrom death! It would have been inhuman."
"Perhaps my love for you might even make me that, Domini. And if itdid--if you knew why I was inhuman--would you blame me for it? Would youhate me for it?"
There was a strong excitement dawning in him. It recalled to her thefirst night in the desert when they sat together on the ground andwatched the waning of the fire.
"Could you--could you hate me for anything, Domini?" he said. "Tellme--could you?"
His face was close to hers. She looked at him with her long, steadyeyes, that had truth written in their dark fire.
"No," she answered. "I could never hate you--now."
"Not if--not if I had done you harm? Not if I had done you a wrong?"
"Could you ever do me a wrong?" she asked.
She sat, looking at him as if in deep thought, for a moment.
"I could almost as easily believe that God could," she said at lastsimply.
"Then you--you have perfect trust in me?"
"But--have you ever thought I had not?" she asked. There was wonder inher voice.
"But I have given my life to you," she added still with wonder. "I amhere in the desert with you. What more can I give? What more can I do?"
He put his arms about her and drew her head down on his shoulder.
"Nothing, nothing. You have given, you have done everything--too much,too much. I feel myself below you, I know myself below you--far, fardown."
"How can you say that? I couldn't have loved you if it were so." Shespoke with complete conviction.
"Perhaps," he said, in a low voice, "perhaps women never realise whattheir love can do. It might--it might--"
"What, Boris?"
"It might do what Christ did--go down into hell to preach to the--to thespirits in prison."
His voice had dropped almost to a murmur. With one hand on her cheek hekept her face pressed down upon his shoulder so that she could not seehis face.
"It might do that, Domini."
"Boris," she said, almost whispering too, for his words and mannerfilled her with a sort of awe, "I want you to tell me something."
"What is it?"
"Are you quite happy with me here in the desert? If you are I want youto tell me that you are. Remember--I shall believe you."
"No other human being could ever give me the happiness you give me."
"But--"
He interrupted her.
"No other human being ever has. Till I met you I had no conception ofthe happiness there is in the world for man and woman who love eachother."
"Then you are happy?"
"Don't I seem so?"
She did not reply. She was searching her heart for the answer--searchingit with an almost terrible sincerity. He waited for her answer, sittingquite still. His hand was always against her face. After what seemed tohim an eternity she said:
"Boris!"
"Yes."
"Why did you say that about a woman's love being able even to go downinto hell to preach to the spirits in prison?"
He did not answer. His hand seemed to her to lie more heavily on hercheek.
"I--I am not sure that you are quite happy with me," she said.
She spoke like one who reverenced truth, even though it slew her. Therewas a note of agony in her voice.
"Hush!" he said. "Hush, Domini!"
They were both silent. Beyond the canvas of the tent that shut out fromthem the camp they heard a sound of music. Drums were being beaten. TheAfrican pipe was wailing. Then the voice of Ali rose in the song of the"Freed Negroes":
"No one but God and I Knows what is in my heart."
At that moment Domini felt that the words were true--horribly true.
"Boris," she said. "Do you hear?"
"Hush, Domini."
"I think there is something in your heart that sometimes makes you sadeven with me. I think perhaps I partly guess what it is."
He took his hand away from her face, his arm from her shoulder, but shecaught hold of him, and her arm was strong like a man's.
"Boris, you are with me, you are close to me, but do you sometimes feelfar away from God?"
He did not answer.
"I don't know; I oughtn't to ask, perhaps. I don't ask--no, I don't.But, if it's that, don't be too sad. It may all come right--here in thedesert. For the desert is the Garden of Allah. And, Boris--put out thelight."
He extinguished the candle with his hand.
"You feel, perhaps, that you can't pray honestly now, but some day youmay be able to. You will be able to. I know it. Before I knew I lovedyou I saw you--praying in the desert."
"I!" he whispered. "You saw me praying in the desert!"
It seemed to her that he was afraid. She pressed him more closely withher arms.
"It was that night in the dancing-house. I seemed to see a crowd ofpeople to whom the desert had given gifts, and to you it had given thegift of prayer. I saw you far out in the desert praying."
She heard his hard breathing, felt it against her cheek.
"If--if it is that, Boris, don't despair. It may come. Keep thecrucifix. I am sure you have it. And I always pray for you."
They sat for a long while in the dark, but they did not speak again thatnight.
Domini did not sleep, and very early in the morning, just as dawn wasbeginning, she stole out of the tent, shutting down the canvas flapbehind her.
It was cold outside--cold almost as in a northern winter. The wind ofthe morning, that blew to her across the wavelike dunes and the whiteplains, seemed impregnated with ice. The sky was a pallid grey. The campwas sleeping. What had been a fire, all red and gold and leaping beauty,was now a circle of ashes, grey as the sky. She stood on the edge of thehill and looked towards the tower.
As she did so, from the house behind it came a string of mules, pickingtheir way among the stones over the hard earth. De Trevignac and his menwere already departing from Mogar.
They came towards her slowly. They had to pass her to reach the track bywhich they were going on to the north and civilisation. She stood to seethem pass.
When they were quite near De Trevignac, who was riding, with his headbent down on his chest, muffled in a heavy cloak, looked up and saw her.She nodded to him. He sat up and saluted. For a moment she thoughtthat he was going on without stopping to speak to her. She saw that hehesitated what to do. Then he pulled up his mule and prepared to getoff.
"No, don't, Monsieur," she said.
She held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she added.
He took her hand, then signed to his men to ride on. When they ha
dpassed, saluting her, he let her hand go. He had not spoken a word. Hisface, burned scarlet by the sun, had a look of exhaustion on it, butalso another look--of horror, she thought, as if in his soul he wasrecoiling from her. His inflamed blue eyes watched her, as if in asearch that was intense. She stood beside the mule in amazement. Shecould hardly believe that this was the man who had thanked her, withtears in his eyes, for her hospitality the night before. "Good-bye,"he said, speaking at last, coldly. She saw him glance at the tent fromwhich she had come. The horror in his face surely deepened. "Goodbye,Madame," he repeated. "Thank you for your hospitality." He pulled up therein to ride on. The mule moved a step or two. Then suddenly he checkedit and turned in the saddle. "Madame!" he said. "Madame!"
She came up to him. It seemed to her that he was going to say somethingof tremendous importance to her. His lips, blistered by the sun, openedto speak. But he only looked again towards the tent in which Androvskywas still sleeping, then at her.
A long moment passed.
Then De Trevignac, as if moved by an irresistable impulse, leaned fromthe saddle and made over Domini the sign of the cross. His hand droppeddown against the mule's side, and without another word, or look, he rodeaway to the north, following his men.