She heard his hard breathing, felt it against her cheek.
“If—if it is that, Boris, don’t despair. It may come. Keep the crucifix. I am sure you have it. And I always pray for you.”
They sat for a long while in the dark, but they did not speak again that night.
Domini did not sleep, and very early in the morning, just as dawn was beginning, she stole out of the tent, shutting down the canvas flap behind her.
It was cold outside—cold almost as in a northern winter. The wind of the morning, that blew to her across the wavelike dunes and the white plains, seemed impregnated with ice. The sky was a pallid grey. The camp was sleeping. What had been a fire, all red and gold and leaping beauty, was now a circle of ashes, grey as the sky. She stood on the edge of the hill and looked towards the tower.
As she did so, from the house behind it came a string of mules, picking their way among the stones over the hard earth. De Trevignac and his men were already departing from Mogar.
They came towards her slowly. They had to pass her to reach the track by which they were going on to the north and civilisation. She stood to see them pass.
When they were quite near De Trevignac, who was riding, with his head bent down on his chest, muffled in a heavy cloak, looked up and saw her. She nodded to him. He sat up and saluted. For a moment she thought that he was going on without stopping to speak to her. She saw that he hesitated what to do. Then he pulled up his mule and prepared to get off.
“No, don’t, Monsieur,” she said.
She held out her hand.