She made a gesture of farewell towards it. Androvsky watched the movement of her hand. She noticed now that she made no movement that he did not observe with a sort of passionate attention. The desert did not exist for him. She saw that in his eyes. He did not look towards the tower even when she repeated:
“We must—we owe it that.”
Batouch and Ali were busy spreading a cloth upon the sand, making it firm with little stones, taking out food, plates, knives, glasses, bottles from a great basket slung on one of the camels. They moved deftly, seriously intent upon their task. The camel-drivers were loosening the cords that bound the loads upon their beasts, who roared venomously, opening their mouths, showing long decayed teeth, and turning their heads from side to side with a serpentine movement. Domini and Androvsky were not watched for a moment.
“Why won’t you look? Why won’t you say good-bye?” she asked, coming nearer to him on the sand softly, with a woman’s longing to hear him explain what she understood.
“What do I care for it, or the palms, or the sky, or the desert?” he answered almost savagely. “What can I care? If you were mine behind iron bars in that prison you spoke of—don’t you think it’s enough for me—too much—a cup running over?”
And he added some words under his breath, words she could not hear.
“Not even the desert!” she said with a catch in her voice.
“It’s all in you. Everything’s in you—everything that brought us together, that we’ve watched and wanted together.”
“But then,” she said, and now her voice was very quiet, “am I peace for you?”
“Peace!” said Androvsky.