She was silent. A moment before she had been longing for a protector. One had come to her, the man whom she had been setting with those legendary figures who have saddened and appalled the imagination of men. She looked at the dark figure of Androvsky leaning forward on the horse whose feet were set on the path of the moon, and she did not know whether she felt confidence in him or fear of him. All that the priest had said rose up in her mind, all that Count Anteoni had hinted and that had been visible in the face of the sand-diviner. This man had followed her into the night as a guardian. Did she need someone, something, to guard her from him? A faint horror was still upon her. Perhaps he knew it and resented it, for he drew himself upright on his horse and spoke again, with a decision that was rare in him.
“Let me send Batouch back to Beni-Mora, Madame.”
“Why?” she asked, in a low voice that was full of hesitation.
“You do not need him now.”
He was looking at her with a defiant, a challenging expression that was his answer to her expression of vague distrust and apprehension.
“How do you know that?”
He did not answer the question, but only said:
“It is better here without him. May I send him away, Madame?”
She bent her head. Androvsky rode off and she saw him speaking to Batouch, who shook his head as if in contradiction.
“Batouch!” she called out. “You can ride back to Beni-Mora. We shall follow directly.”