the desert. Now
he was hers into the desert, and the desert was hers with him. But was
it possible? Could such a fate have been held in reserve for her? She
scarcely dared even to try to realise the meaning of her situation,
lest at a breath it should be changed. Just then she felt that if she
ventured to weigh and measure her wonderful gift Androvsky would fall
dead at her feet and the desert be folded together like a scroll.

"There is Beni-Mora, Madame," said Batouch.

She was glad he spoke to her, turned and followed with her eyes his
pointing hand. Far off she saw a green darkness of palms, and above it a
white tower, small, from here, as the tower of a castle of dolls.

"The tower!" she said to Androvsky. "We first spoke in it. We must bid
it good-bye."

She made a gesture of farewell towards it. Androvsky watched the
movement of her hand. She noticed now that she made no movement that he
did not observe with a sort of passionate attention. The desert did not
exist for him. She saw that in his eyes. He did not look towards the
tower even when she repeated:

"We must--we owe it that."

Batouch and Ali were busy spreading a cloth upon the sand, making it
firm with little stones, taking out food, plates, knives, glasses,
bottles from a great basket slung on one of the camels. They moved
deftly, seriously intent upon their task. The camel-drivers were
loosening the cords that bound the loads upon their beasts, who roared
venomously, opening their mouths, showing long decayed teeth, and
turning their heads from side to side with a serpentine movement. Domini
and Androvsky were not watched for a moment.

"Why won't you look? Why won't you say good-bye?" she asked, coming
nearer to him on the sand softly, with a woman's longing to hear him
explain what she understood.

"What do I care for it, or the palms, or the sky, or the desert?" he
answered almost savagely. "What can I care? If you were mine behind
iron bars in that prison you spoke of--don't you think it's enough for
me--too much--a cup running over?"

And he added some words under his breath, words she could not hear.

"Not even the desert!" she said with a catch in her voice.

"It's all in you. Everything's in you--everything that brought us
together, that we've watched and wanted together."

"But then," she said, and now her voice was very quiet, "am I peace for
you?"

"Peace!" said Androvsky.

"Yes. Don't you remember once I said that there mu