They heard Batouch’s voice outside the palanquin.

“Madame!” he called.  “Madame!”

“What is it?” asked Domini, stifling a sigh.

“Madame should draw the curtains.  We are halfway to Arba.  It is time for dejeuner.  I will make the camel of Madame lie down.”

A loud “A-a-ah!” rose up, followed by a fierce groaning from the camel, and a lethargic, yet violent, movement that threw them forward and backward.  They sank.  A hand from without pulled back the curtains and light streamed over them.  They set their feet in sand, stood up, and looked about them.

Already they were far out in the desert, though not yet beyond the limit of the range of red mountains, which stretched forward upon their left but at no great distance beyond them ended in the sands.  The camels were lying down in a faintly defined track which was bordered upon either side by the plain covered with little humps of sandy soil on which grew dusty shrub.  Above them was a sky of faint blue, heavy with banks of clouds towards the east, and over their heads dressed in wispy veils of vaporous white, through which the blue peered in sections that grew larger as they looked.  Towards the south, where Arba lay on a low hill of earth, without grass or trees, beyond a mound covered thickly with tamarisk bushes, which was a feeding-place for immense herds of camels, the blue was clear and the light of the sun intense.  A delicate breeze travelled about them, stirring the bushes and the robes of the Arabs, who were throwing back their hoods, and uncovering their mouths, and smiling at them, but seriously, as Arabs alone can smile.  Beside them stood two white and yellow guard dogs, blinking and looking weary.

For a moment they stood still, blinking too, almost like the dogs.  The change to this immensity and light from the narrow darkness of the palanquin overwhelmed their senses.  They said nothing, but only stared silently.  Then Domini, with a large gesture, stretched her arms above her head, drawing a deep breath which ended in a little, almost sobbing, laugh of exultation.

“Out of prison,” she said disconnectedly.  “Out of prison—­into this!” Suddenly she turned upon Androvsky and caught his arm, and twined both of her arms round it with a strong confidence that was careless of everything in the intensity of its happiness.

“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.