For a moment she thought it was the Diviner in pursuit, but something in the gait soon showed her her mistake. There was a heaviness in the movement of this man quite unlike the lithe and serpentine agility of Aloui. Although she could not see the face, or even distinguish the costume in the morning twilight, she knew it for Androvsky. From a distance he was watching over her. She did not hesitate, but walked on quickly again. She did not wish him to know that she had seen him.
When she came to the long road that skirted the desert she met the breeze of dawn that blows out of the east across the flats, and drank in its celestial purity. Between the palms, far away towards Sidi-Zerzour, above the long indigo line of the Sahara, there rose a curve of deep red gold. The sun was coming up to take possession of his waiting world. She longed to ride out to meet him, to give him a passionate welcome in the sand, and the opening words of the Egyptian "Adoration of the Sun by the Perfect Souls" came to her lips:
"Hommage a Toi. Dieu Soleil. Seigneur du Ciel, Roi sur la Terre! Lion du Soir! Grande Ame divine, vivante a toujours."
Why had she not ordered her horse to ride a little way with Count Anteoni? She might have pretended that she was starting on her great journey.
The red gold curve became a semi-circle of burnished glory resting upon the deep blue, then a full circle that detached itself majestically and mounted calmly up the cloudless sky. A stream of light poured into the oasis, and Domini, who had paused for a moment in silent worship, went on swiftly through the negro village which was all astir, and down the track to the white villa.
She did not glance round again to see whether Androvsky was still following her, for, since the sun had come, she had the confident sensation that he was no longer near.
He had surely given her into the guardianship of the sun.
The door of the garden stood wide open, and, as she entered, she saw three magnificent horses prancing upon the sweep of sand in the midst of a little group of Arabs. Smain greeted her with graceful warmth and begged her to follow him to the /fumoir/, where the Count was waiting for her.
"It is good of you!" the Count said, meeting her in the doorway. "I relied on you, you see!"
Breakfast for two was scattered upon the little smoking-tables; coffee, eggs, rolls, fruit, sweetmeats. And everywhere sprigs of orange blossom filled the cool air with delicate sweetness.
"How delicious!" she exclaimed. "A breakfast here! But--no, not there!"
"Why not?"
"That is exactly where he was."
"Aloui! How superstitious you are!"
He moved her table. She sat down near the doorway and poured out coffee for them both.
"You look workmanlike."
She glanced at his riding-dress and long whip. Smoked glasses hung across his chest by a thin cord.
"I shall have some hard riding, but I'm tough, though you may not think it. I've covered many a league of my friend in bygone years."
He tapped an eggshell smartly, and began to eat with appetite.
"How gravely gay you are!" she said, lifting the steaming coffee to her lips. He smiled.
"Yes. To-day I am happy, as a pious man is happy when after a long illness, he goes once more to church."
"The desert seems to be everything to you."
"I feel that I am going out to *******, to more than *******." He stretched out his arms above his head.
"Yet you have stayed always in this garden all these days."
"I was waiting for my summons, as you will wait for yours."
"What summons could I have?"
"It will come!" he said with conviction. "It will come!" She was silent, thinking of the diviner's vision in the sand, of the caravan of camels disappearing in the storm towards the south. Presently she asked him:
"Are you ever coming back?"
He looked at her in surprise, then laughed.
"Of course. What are you thinking?"
"That perhaps you will not come back, that perhaps the desert will keep you."
"And my garden?"
She looked out across the tiny sand-path and the running rill of water to the great trees stirred by the cool breeze of dawn.
"It would miss you."
After a moment, during which his bright eyes followed hers, he said:
"Do you know, I have a great belief in the intuitions of good women?"
"Yes?"
"An almost fanatical belief. Will you answer me a question at once, without consideration, without any time for thought?"
"If you ask me to."
"I do ask you."
"Then----?"
"Do you see me in this garden any more?"
A voice answered:
"No."
It was her own, yet it seemed another's voice, with which she had nothing to do.
A great feeling of sorrow swept over her as she heard it.
"Do come back!" she said.
The Count had got up. The brightness of his eyes was obscured.
"If not here, we shall meet again," he said slowly.
"Where?"
"In the desert."
"Did the Diviner--? No, don't tell me."
She got up too.
"It is time for you to start?"
"Nearly."
A sort of constraint had settled over them. She felt it painfully for a moment. Did it proceed from something in his mind or in hers? She could not tell. They walked slowly down one of the little paths and presently found themselves before the room in which sat the purple dog.
"If I am never to come back I must say good-bye to him," the Count said.
"But you will come back."
"That voice said 'No.'"
"It was a lying voice."
"Perhaps."
They looked in at the window and met the ferocious eyes of the dog.
"And if I never come back will he bay the moon for his old master?" said the Count with a whimsical, yet sad, smile. "I put him here. And will these trees, many of which I planted, whisper a regret? Absurd, isn't it, Miss Enfilden? I never can feel that the growing things in my garden do not know me as I know them."
"Someone will regret you if--"
"Will you? Will you really?"
"Yes."
"I believe it."
He looked at her. She could see, by the expression of his eyes, that he was on the point of saying something, but was held back by some fighting sensation, perhaps by some reserve.
"What is it?"
"May I speak frankly to you without offence?" he asked. "I am really rather old, you know."
"Do speak."
"That guest of mine yesterday--"
"Monsieur Androvsky?"
