Wide as the sands had been, they seemed to widen out into a greater immensity of arid pallor before the city gates as yet unseen.  The stretch of blue above looked vaster here, the horizons more remote, the radiance of the sun more vivid, more inexorable.  Nature surely expanded as if in an effort to hold her arm against some tremendous spectacle set in its bosom by the activity of men, who were strong and ardent as the giants of old, who had powers and a passion for employing them persistently not known in any other region of the earth.  The immensity of Mogar brought sadness to the mind.  The immensity of Ain-Amara brought excitement.  Even at this distance from it, when its minarets were still like shadowy fingers of an unlifted hand, Androvsky and Domini were conscious of influences streaming forth from its battlements over the sloping sands like a procession that welcomed them to a new phase of desert life.

“And people talk of the monotony of the Sahara!” Domini said speaking out of their mutual thought.  “Everything is here, Boris; you’ve never drawn near to London.  Long before you reach the first suburbs you feel London like a great influence brooding over the fields and the woods.  Here you feel Amara in the same way brooding over the sands.  It’s as if the sands were full of voices.  Doesn’t it excite you?”

“Yes,” he said.  “But”—­and he turned in his saddle and looked back—­“I feel as if the solitudes were safer.”

“We can return to them.”

“Yes.”

“We are splendidly free.  There’s nothing to prevent us leaving Amara tomorrow.”

“Isn’t there?” he answered, fixing his eyes upon the minarets.

“What can there be?”

“Who knows?”

“What do you mean, Boris?  Are you superstitious?  But you reject the influence of place.  Don’t you remember—­at Mogar?”

At the mention of the name his face clouded and she was sorry she had spoken it.  Since they had left the hill above the mirage sea they had scarcely ever alluded to their night there.  They had never once talked of the dinner in camp with De Trevignac and his men, or renewed their conversation in the tent on the subject of religion.  But since that day, since her words about Androvsky’s lack of perfect happiness even with her far out in the freedom of the desert, Domini had been conscious that, despite their great love for each other, their mutual passion for the solitude in which it grew each day more deep and more engrossing, wrapping their lives in fire and leading them on to the inner abodes of sacred understanding, there was at moments a barrier between them.

At first she had striven not to recognise its existence.  She had striven to be blind.  But she was essentially a brave woman and an almost fanatical lover of truth for its own sake, thinking that what is called an ugly truth is less ugly than the loveliest lie.  To deny truth is to play the coward.  She could not long do that.  And so she quickly learned to face this truth with steady eyes and an unflinching heart.