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Updated: May 20, 2025
For the first time the idea that he was keeping something from her, a sorrow, almost maddened her, even made her feel jealous. The fact that she divined what that sorrow was, or believed she divined it, did not help her just then. She waited a long while, but Androvsky did not return, and at last she prayed and went to bed.
Her presents were the velvety roses in the earthen vases, the breezes of the desert, the sand humps, the yellow butterflies, the silence that lay around like a blessing pronounced by the God who made the still places where souls can learn to know themselves and their great destiny. "A wedding breakfast," Androvsky said. "Yes. But perhaps you have never been to one." "Never."
"Can't you speak to him?" Androvsky glanced at him for the first time. "Speak to him, Madame? Why?" "He he's horrible!" She felt a sudden disinclination to tell Androvsky why the old man was horrible to her. "What do you wish me to say to him?" "I thought perhaps you might be able to stop him from doing that." Androvsky bent down and spoke to the old man in Arabic.
"I'm sure quite sure of that." Androvsky came in out of the shadow of the tent, took her in his arms with passion, laid his lips on hers with passion, hot, burning force and fire, and a hard tenderness that was hard because it was intense. "God will bless you," he said. "God will bless you. Whatever life brings you at the end you must you must be blessed by Him."
When she came down and reached the court she found the old man still striking at the mosque and shrieking out his trembling imprecation. And she found Androvsky still standing by him with fascinated eyes. She had mounted with the voice of prayer into the sunshine, surely a little way towards God. Androvsky had remained in the dark shadow with a curse.
Her nature galloped like an Arab horse across the sands towards the sun, towards the fire that sheds warmth afar but that devours all that draws near to it. At that moment she connected Androvsky with the tremendous fires eternally blazing in the sun. She had a desire that he should hurt her in the passionate intensity of his love for her.
She prayed for Androvsky without words, making of her feelings of gratitude to him a prayer, and presently, in the darkness framed by her hands, she seemed to see Liberty once more, as in the shadows of the dancing-house, standing beside a man who prayed far out in the glory of the desert. The storm, spoken of by the Diviner, did not always rage. It was stilled to hear his prayer.
"Madame?" "Will you come with me for a ride into the desert?" His face was flooded with scarlet, and he came a step forward, looking up at her. "I!" he said with an accent of infinite surprise. "Yes. Will you?" The chestnut thundered up and was pulled sharply back on its haunches. Androvsky shot a sideways glance at it and hesitated.
To-night it stood apart, near the sleeping-tent, and in it was placed one of the small camp beds. Androvsky was alone when he saw this. On reaching the halting-place he had walked a little way into the desert. When he returned he found this change. It told him something of what was passing in Domini's mind, and it marked the transformation of their mutual life.
Count Anteoni expressed it for her. "The Steppes and the Desert are akin, you know," he said. "Despite the opposition of frost and fire." "Just what I was thinking!" she exclaimed. "That must be why " She stopped short. "Yes?" said the Count. Both Father Roubier and Androvsky looked at her with expectancy.
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