At moments Androvsky retreated from her, his mind became remote—­more, his heart was far from her, and, in its distant place, was suffering.  Of that she was assured.

But she was assured, too, that she stood to him for perfection in human companionship.  A woman’s love is, perhaps, the only true divining rod.  Domini knew instinctively where lay the troubled waters, what troubled them in their subterranean dwelling.  She was certain that Androvsky was at peace with her but not with himself.  She had said to him in the tent that she thought he sometimes felt far away from God.  The conviction grew in her that even the satisfaction of his great human love was not enough for his nature.  He demanded, sometimes imperiously, not only the peace that can be understood gloriously, but also that other peace which passeth understanding.  And because he had it not he suffered.

In the Garden of Allah he felt a loneliness even though she was with him, and he could not speak with her of this loneliness.  That was the barrier between them, she thought.

She prayed for him:  in the tent by night, in the desert under the burning sky by day.  When the muezzin cried from the minaret of some tiny village lost in the desolation of the wastes, turning to the north, south, east and west, and the Mussulmans bowed their shaved heads, facing towards Mecca, she prayed to the Catholics’ God, whom she felt to be the God, too, of all the devout, of all the religions of the world, and to the Mother of God, looking towards Africa.  She prayed that this man whom she loved, and who she believed was seeking, might find.  And she felt that there was a strength, a passion in her prayers, which could not be rejected.  She felt that some day Allah would show himself in his garden to the wanderer there.  She dared to feel that because she dared to believe in the endless mercy of God.  And when that moment came she felt, too, that their love—­hers and his—­for each other would be crowned.  Beautiful and intense as it was it still lacked something.  It needed to be encircled by the protecting love of a God in whom they both believed in the same way, and to whom they both were equally near.  While she felt close to this love and he far from it they were not quite together.

There were moments in which she was troubled, even sad, but they passed.  For she had a great courage, a great confidence.  The hope that dwells like a flame in the purity of prayer comforted her.

“I love the solitudes,” he said.  “I love to have you to myself.”

“If we lived always in the greatest city of the world it would make no difference,” she said quietly.  “You know that, Boris.”

He bent over from his saddle and clasped her hand in his, and they rode thus up the great slope of the sands, with their horses close together.