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Updated: June 7, 2025
At this lunch Androvsky had been brusque, on the defensive, almost actively disagreeable. And when, after the priest's departure, he left Domini alone with Count Anteoni, she felt almost relieved. Count Anteoni summoned a sand-diviner to read Domini's fate in the sand.
"So you have started upon your desert journey," he added, looking closely at her, as he had often looked in the garden. "Yes." "And as I ventured to advise that last time, do you remember?" She recollected his words. "No," she replied, and there was a warmth of joy, almost of pride, in her voice. "I am not alone." Count Anteoni was standing with one hand on her horse's neck.
In the desert these two human beings had grown to love each other, with a love that had become a burning passion. And next day when, in the garden of Count Anteoni, Androvsky came to say farewell to Domini, his love broke all barriers. He sank on the sand, letting his hands slip down till they clasped Domini's knees. "I love you!" he said. "I love you. But don't listen to me. You mustn't hear it.
Count Anteoni took the glasses from Smain and looked through them, adjusting them carefully to suit his sight. "Ecco!" he said. "I was right. That man is not an Arab." He moved the glasses and glanced at Domini. "You are not the only traveller here, Madame." He looked through the glasses again. "I knew that," she said. "Indeed?" "There is one at my hotel." "Possibly this is he.
Our love is happy. Leave it as it is." "I can't. I will not. Boris, Count Anteoni has found a home. But you are wandering. I can't bear that, I can't bear it. It is as if I were sitting in the house, warm, safe, and you were out in the storm. It tortures me. It almost makes me hate my own safety." Androvsky shivered. He took his hand forcibly from Domini's.
The sky in the west looked like an enormous conflagration, in which tortured things were struggling and lifting twisted arms. Domini's acquaintance with Androvsky had not progressed as easily and pleasantly as her intercourse with Count Anteoni. She recognised that he was what is called a "difficult man."
Count Anteoni had said good-bye to her at the door of the garden, and had begged her to come again whenever she liked, and to spend as many hours there as she pleased. "I shall take you at your word," she said frankly. "I feel that I may." As they shook hands she gave him her card. He took out his. "By the way," he said, "the big hotel you passed in coming here is mine.
At last Count Anteoni spoke again. "It was written," he said quietly. "It was written in the sand." She thought of the sand-diviner and was silent. An oppression of spirit had suddenly come upon her. It seemed to her connected with something physical, something obscure, unusual, such as she had never felt before.
But Count Anteoni thinks rather as a Bashi-Bazouk fights, I fancy." She heard a chair creak in the distance and glanced over her shoulder. The traveller had turned sideways. At once she bade the priest good-bye and walked away and out through the swing door. All the afternoon she rested. The silence was profound. Beni-Mora was enjoying a siesta in the heat. Domini revelled in the stillness.
There is something very grand in the human heart deliberately taking upon itself the yoke of discipline." "Islam the very word means the surrender of the human will to the will of God," said Count Anteoni.
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