“Fear is sometimes the beginning of wisdom,” he answered.  “But you are without it, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Every day I see you galloping away into the sun.”

She thought there was a faint sound of warning—­or was it of rebuke—­in his voice.  It made her feel defiant.

“I think you lose a great deal by not galloping into the sun too,” she said.

“But if I don’t ride?”

That made her think of Androvsky and his angry resolution.  It had not been the resolution of a day.  Wearied and stiffened as he had been by the expedition to Sidi-Zerzour, actually injured by his fall—­she knew from Batouch that he had been obliged to call in the Beni-Mora doctor to bandage his shoulder—­she had been roused at dawn on the day following by his tread on the verandah.  She had lain still while it descended the staircase, but then the sharp neighing of a horse had awakened an irresistible curiosity in her.  She had got up, wrapped herself in a fur coat and slipped out on to the verandah.  The sun was not above the horizon line of the desert, but the darkness of night was melting into a luminous grey.  The air was almost cold.  The palms looked spectral, even terrible, the empty and silent gardens melancholy and dangerous.  It was not an hour for activity, for determination, but for reverie, for apprehension.

Below, a sleepy Arab boy, his hood drawn over his head, held the chestnut horse by the bridle.  Androvsky came out from the arcade.  He wore a cap pulled down to his eyebrows which changed his appearance, giving him, as seen from above, the look of a groom or stable hand.  He stood for a minute and stared at the horse.  Then he limped round to the left side and carefully mounted, following out the directions Domini had given him the previous day:  to avoid touching the animal with his foot, to have the rein in his fingers before leaving the ground, and to come down in the saddle as lightly as possible.  She noted that all her hints were taken with infinite precaution.  Once on the horse he tried to sit up straight, but found the effort too great in his weary and bruised condition.  He leaned forward over the saddle peak, and rode away in the luminous greyness towards the desert.  The horse went quietly, as if affected by the mystery of the still hour.  Horse and rider disappeared.  The Arab boy wandered off in the direction of the village.  But Domini remained looking after Androvsky.  She saw nothing but the grim palms and the spectral atmosphere in which the desert lay.  Yet she did not move till a red spear was thrust up out of the east towards the last waning star.

He had gone to learn his lesson in the desert.

Three days afterwards she rode with him again.  She did not let him know of her presence on the verandah, and he said nothing of his departure in the dawn.  He spoke very little and seemed much occupied with his horse, and she saw that he was more than determined—­that he was apt at acquiring control of a physical exercise new to him.  His great strength stood him in good stead.  Only a man hard in the body could have so rapidly recovered from the effects of that first day of defeat and struggle.  His absolute reticence about his efforts and the iron will that prompted them pleased Domini.  She found them worthy of a man.