“—that you were off to the centre of the earth, or—I don’t know what I thought. You aren’t hurt?”
“No.”
He could only speak in monosyllables as yet. She looked his horse over.
“He won’t give much more trouble just now. Shall we ride back?”
As she spoke she threw a longing glance at the far desert, at the verge of which was a dull green line betokening the distant palms of an oasis.
Androvsky shook his head.
“But you——” She hesitated. “Perhaps you aren’t accustomed to horses, and with that saddle——”
He shook his head again, drew a tremendous breath and said
“I don’t care, I’ll go on, I won’t go back.”
He put up one hand, brushed the foam from his streaming forehead, and said again fiercely: