The minarets of the city grew more distinct.  They dominated the waste as the thought of Allah dominates the Mohammedan world.  Presently, far away on the left, Domini and Androvsky saw hills of sand, clearly defined like small mountains delicately shaped.  On the summits of these hills were Arab villages of the hue of bronze gleaming in the sun.  No trees stood near them.  But beyond them, much farther off, was the long green line of the palms of a large oasis.  Between them and the riders moved slowly towards the minarets dark things that looked like serpents writhing through the sands.  These were caravans coming into the city from long journeys.  Here and there, dotted about in the immensity, were solitary horsemen, camels in twos and threes, small troops of donkeys.  And all the things that moved went towards the minarets as if irresistibly drawn onwards by some strong influence that sucked them in from the solitudes of the whirlpool of human life.

Again Domini thought of the approach to London, and of the dominion of great cities, those octopus monsters created by men, whose tentacles are strong to seize and stronger still to keep.  She was infected by Androvsky’s dread of a changed life, and through her excitement, that pulsed with interest and curiosity, she felt a faint thrill of something that was like fear.

“Boris,” she said, “I feel as if your thoughts were being conveyed to me by your touch.  Perhaps the solitudes are best.”

By a simultaneous impulse they pulled in their horses and listened.  Sounds came to them over the sands, thin and remote.  They could not tell what they were, but they knew that they heard something which suggested the distant presence of life.

“What is it?” said Domini.

“I don’t know, but I hear something.  It travels to us from the minarets.”

They both leaned forward on their horses’ necks, holding each other’s hand.

“I feel the tumult of men,” Androvsky said presently.

“And I. But it seems as if no men could have elected to build a city here.”

“Here in the ‘Belly of the desert,’” he said, quoting the Arabs’ name for Amara.

“Boris”—­she spoke in a more eager voice, clasping his hand strongly—­“you remember the fumoir in Count Anteoni’s garden.  The place where it stood was the very heart of the garden.”

“Yes.”

“We understood each other there.”

He pressed her hand without speaking.

“Amara seems to me the heart of the Garden of Allah.  Perhaps—­perhaps we shall——­”

She paused.  Her eyes were fixed upon his face.

“What, Domini?” he asked.

He looked expectant, but anxious, and watched her, but with eyes that seemed ready to look away from her at a word.

“Perhaps we shall understand each other even better there.”

He looked down at the white sand.

“Better!” he repeated.  “Could we do that?”