Often they had smiled over Batouch’s opulent descriptions of the marvels of Ain-Amara, which they suspected to be very far away from the reality, and yet, nevertheless, when they saw the minarets soaring above the sands to the brassy heaven, it seemed to them both as if, perhaps, they might be true. The place looked intensely barbaric. The approach to it was grandiose.
Wide as the sands had been, they seemed to widen out into a greater immensity of arid pallor before the city gates as yet unseen. The stretch of blue above looked vaster here, the horizons more remote, the radiance of the sun more vivid, more inexorable. Nature surely expanded as if in an effort to hold her arm against some tremendous spectacle set in its bosom by the activity of men, who were strong and ardent as the giants of old, who had powers and a passion for employing them persistently not known in any other region of the earth. The immensity of Mogar brought sadness to the mind. The immensity of Ain-Amara brought excitement. Even at this distance from it, when its minarets were still like shadowy fingers of an unlifted hand, Androvsky and Domini were conscious of influences streaming forth from its battlements over the sloping sands like a procession that welcomed them to a new phase of desert life.
“And people talk of the monotony of the Sahara!” Domini said speaking out of their mutual thought. “Everything is here, Boris; you’ve never drawn near to London. Long before you reach the first suburbs you feel London like a great influence brooding over the fields and the woods. Here you feel Amara in the same way brooding over the sands. It’s as if the sands were full of voices. Doesn’t it excite you?”
“Yes,” he said. “But”—and he turned in his saddle and looked back—“I feel as if the solitudes were safer.”
“We can return to them.”
“Yes.”
“We are splendidly free. There’s nothing to prevent us leaving Amara tomorrow.”
“Isn’t there?” he answered, fixing his eyes upon the minarets.
“What can there be?”
“Who knows?”