“You love the desert. Why do you never go into it?”
“I prefer to watch it,” he relied. “When you are in the desert it bewilders you.”
She remembered what she had felt during her first ride with Androvsky.
“I believe you are afraid of it,” she said challengingly.
“Fear is sometimes the beginning of wisdom,” he answered. “But you are without it, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Every day I see you galloping away into the sun.”
She thought there was a faint sound of warning—or was it of rebuke—in his voice. It made her feel defiant.
“I think you lose a great deal by not galloping into the sun too,” she said.
“But if I don’t ride?”