she thought, that
gleam of light that shone out of her home, the brightest of all the
stars of Africa. She went towards it. As she drew near she expected to
hear the voices of the two men, but she heard nothing. Nor did she see
the blackness of their forms in the circle of the light. Perhaps they
had gone out to join the soldiers and the Arabs round the fire. She
hastened on, came to the tent, entered it, and was confronted by her
husband, who was standing back in an angle formed by the canvas, in
the shadow, alone. On the floor near him lay a quantity of fragments of
glass.

"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 face
of 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 had
displayed such warm, even touching, appreciation of her kindness leaving
her without a word, taking the opportunity of her momentary absence to
disappear, 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 ground
among the fragments.

"What's this?" she said. "Oh, the African liqueur!"

Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her with an iron grip, and led her
away out of the tent. They crossed the space to the sleeping-tent in
silence. She felt governed, and as if she must yield to his will, but
she also felt confused, even almost alarmed mentally. The sleeping-tent
was dark. When they reached it Androvsky took his arm from her, and she
heard him searching for the matches. She was in the tent door and could
see that there was a light in the tower. De Trevignac must be there
already. No doubt it was he who had passed her in the night when she was
returning to the camp. Androvsky struck a match and lit a candle. Then
he 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 the
night.

"What is it, Boris?