“All my life I’ve been in prison,” she said. “You’ve unlocked the door!” And then, as suddenly as she had caught his arm, she let it go. Something surged up in her, making her almost afraid; or, if not that, confused. It was as if her nature were a horse taking the bit between its teeth preparatory to a tremendous gallop. Whither? She did not know. She was intoxicated by the growing light, the sharp, delicious air, the huge spaces around her, the solitude with this man who held her soul surely in his hands. She had always connected him with the desert. Now he was hers into the desert, and the desert was hers with him. But was it possible? Could such a fate have been held in reserve for her? She scarcely dared even to try to realise the meaning of her situation, lest at a breath it should be changed. Just then she felt that if she ventured to weigh and measure her wonderful gift Androvsky would fall dead at her feet and the desert be folded together like a scroll. “There is Beni-Mora, Madame,” said Batouch. She was glad he spoke to her, turned and followed with her eyes his pointing hand. Far off she saw a green darkness of palms, and above it a white tower, small, from here, as the tower of a castle of dolls. “The tower!” she said to Androvsky. “We first spoke in it. We must bid it good-bye.” 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.