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Updated: May 20, 2025
He shot out his arms and reiterated his trembling shriek. It pierced the sound of prayer as lightning pierces cloud. Domini got up quickly. "I can't bear it," she said, still in a whisper. "It's as if he were cursing God." Androvsky looked at the old man again, this time with profound attention. "Isn't it?" she said. "Isn't it as if he were cursing God while the whole world worshipped?
She was going away to the hotel door, but she stopped. "My name is Domini Enfilden," she said in English. The man stood in the road looking at her. She waited. She expected him to tell her his name. There was a silence. At last he said hesitatingly, in English with a very slight foreign accent: "My name is Boris Boris Androvsky." "Batouch told me you were English," she said.
True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire after Androvsky's health. He happened to come just before dejeuner was ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door. "It's not fever then, Monsieur," he said, after they had shaken hands. "No, no," Androvsky replied. "I am quite well this morning." The priest looked at him closely with an unembarrassed scrutiny.
He seemed somehow part of her impression of the desert, and now, as they sat under the fig tree between the high earth walls, and at their al fresco meal in unbroken silence for since her last remark Androvsky had kept his eyes down and had not uttered a word she tried to imagine the desert without him.
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.
The poet stared at him with a superb surprise, then moved slowly towards Ouardi, holding his burnous with his large hands. Androvsky looked again at the two tents as a man looks at two enemies. Then, walking quickly, he went towards the hump of sand. As he approached it Domini had her side face turned towards him. She did not see him.
The light of happiness was still upon his face and made him look much younger than usual. His whole bearing, in its elasticity and buoyant courage, was full of anticipation. As he came up to them he said to Domini: "Do you remember chiding me?" "I!" she said. "For what?" Androvsky sat up and the expression of serenity passed away from his face. "For never galloping away into the sun."
He was helping himself to some gazelle, which sent forth an appetising odour, and Ouardi was proudly pouring out for him the first glass of blithely winking champagne. "I hardly know, but everything looked sad and strange; I began to think about the uncertainties of life." Domini and De Trevignac were sipping their champagne. Ouardi came behind Androvsky to fill his glass.
Now free, alone, she had left England to begin a new life far away from the scene of her misery. Vaguely she had thought of the great desert, called by the Arabs "The Garden of Allah," as the home of peace. She had travelled there to find peace. That day, at the gate of the desert, she had met a traveller, Doris Androvsky, a man of about thirty-six, powerfully built, tanned by the sun.
To-day he had returned to his worst self, to the man who had twice treated her with brutal rudeness. "Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?" she asked, looking away from Androvsky. "Very," said Father Roubier. "Although, of course, I am not in sympathy with their religion, I have often been moved by their adherence to its rules.
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