Then again it seemed to her that she saw Androvsky galloping upon a horse as if pursued.
Moved by a desire to do something to combat this strange despair, born of the moonrise and the night, she sat erect in her saddle, and resolutely looked at the desert, striving to get away from herself in a hard contemplation of the details that surrounded her, the outward things that were coming each moment into clearer view. She gazed steadily towards the palms that sharply cut the moonlight. As she did so something black moved away from them, as if it had been part of them and now detached itself with the intention of approaching her along the track. At first it was merely a moving blot, formless and small, but as it drew nearer she saw that it was a horseman riding slowly, perhaps stealthily, across the sand. She glanced behind her, and saw Batouch not far off, and the fires of the nomads. Then she turned again to watch the horseman. He came steadily forward.
“Madame!”
It was the voice of Batouch.
“Stay where you are!” she called out to him.
She heard the soft sound of the horse’s feet and could see the attitude of its rider. He was leaning forward as if searching the night. She rode to meet him, and they came to each other in the path of the light she had thought tragic.
“You followed me?”
“I cannot see you go out alone into the desert at night,” Androvsky replied.
“But you have no right to follow me.”
“I cannot let harm come to you, Madame.”