Moved by a desire to do something to combat this strange despair, born of the moonrise and the night, she sat erect in her saddle, and resolutely looked at the desert, striving to get away from herself in a hard contemplation of the details that surrounded her, the outward things that were coming each moment into clearer view. She gazed steadily towards the palms that sharply cut the moonlight. As she did so something black moved away from them, as if it had been part of them and now detached itself with the intention of approaching her along the track. At first it was merely a moving blot, formless and small, but as it drew nearer she saw that it was a horseman riding slowly, perhaps stealthily, across the sand. She glanced behind her, and saw Batouch not far off, and the fires of the nomads. Then she turned again to watch the horseman. He came steadily forward. “Madame!” It was the voice of Batouch. “Stay where you are!” she called out to him. She heard the soft sound of the horse’s feet and could see the attitude of its rider. He was leaning forward as if searching the night. She rode to meet him, and they came to each other in the path of the light she had thought tragic. “You followed me?” “I cannot see you go out alone into the desert at night,” Androvsky replied. “But you have no right to follow me.” “I cannot let harm come to you, Madame.” 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.” The poet cantered forward. “Madame, it is not safe.”