ms. I know that. But we, you and I,
we must not dream any more."

"A dream, you call it--the life we have lived together, our desert
life?"

"Boris, I only mean that we must live strongly now, act strongly now,
that we must be brave. I have always felt that there was strength in
you."

"Strength!" he said bitterly.

"Yes. Otherwise I could never have loved you. Don't ever prove to me
that I was utterly wrong. I can bear a great deal. But that--I don't
feel as if I could bear that."

After a moment he answered:

"I will try to give you nothing more to bear for me."

And he lifted his eyes and fixed them upon the tower with a sort of
stern intentness, as a man looks at something cruel, terrible.

She saw him do this.

"Let us ride quicker," she said. "To-night we must be in Beni-Mora."

He said nothing, but he touched his horse with his heel. His eyes were
always fixed upon the tower, as if they feared to look at the desert
any more. She understood that when he had said "I will try to give you
nothing more to bear for me," he had not spoken idly. He had waked up
from the egoism of his despair. He had been able to see more clearly
into her heart, to feel more rightly what she was feeling than he had
before. As she watched him watching the tower, she had a sensation that
a bond, a new bond between them, was chaining them together in a new
way. Was it not a bond that would be strong and lasting, that the
future, whatever it held, would not be able to break? Ties, sacred ties,
that had bound them together might, must, be snapped asunder. And the
end was not yet. She saw, as she gazed at the darkness of the palms of
Beni-Mora, a greater darkness approaching, deeper than any darkness of
palms, than any darkness of night. But now she saw also a ray of
light in the gloom, the light of the dawning strength, the dawning
unselfishness in Androvsky. And she resolved to fix her eyes upon it as
he fixed his eyes upon the tower.

Just after sunset they rode into Beni-Mora in advance of the camp, which
they had passed upon their way. To the right were the trees of Count
Anteoni's garden. Domini felt them, but she did not look towards them.
Nor did Androvsky. They kept their eyes fixed upon the distance of
the white road. Only when they reached the great hotel, now closed and
deserted, did she glance away. She could not pass the tower without
seeing it. But she saw it through a mist of tears, and her hands
trembled upon the