In that mutual, instinctive look back they were both bidding a silent farewell to the desert, that had sheltered their passion, surely taken part in the joy of their love, watched the sorrow and the terror grow in it to the climax at Amara, and was now whispering to them a faint and mysterious farewell.
To Domini the desert had always been as a great and significant personality, a personality that had called her persistently to come to it. Now, as she turned on her horse, she felt as if it were calling her no longer, as if its mission to her were accomplished, as if its voice had sunk into a deep and breathless silence. She wondered if Androvsky felt this too, but she did not ask him. His face was pale and severe. His eyes stared into the distance. His hands lay on his horse’s neck like tired things with no more power to grip and hold. His lips were slightly parted, and she heard the sound of his breath coming and going like the breath of a man who is struggling. This sound warned her not to try his strength or hers.
“Come, Boris,” she said, and her voice held none of the passionate regret that was in her heart, “we mustn’t linger, or it will be night before we reach Beni-Mora.”
“Let it be night,” he said. “Dark night!”
The horses moved slowly on, descending the hill on which stood the bordj.
“Dark—dark night!” he said again.
She said nothing. They rode into the plain. When they were there he said:
“Domini, do you understand—do you realise?”
“What, Boris?” she asked quietly.
“All that we are leaving to-day?”