He sat looking at her. She pressed her hands together. In her dark face, with its heavy eyebrows and strong, generous mouth, a contest showed, a struggle between some quick desire and some more sluggish but determined reluctance. In a moment she spoke again.
"I won't hear anything more, please."
"But you said 'whatever it may be.'"
"Yes. But I won't hear anything more."
She spoke very quietly, with determination.
The Diviner was beginning to move his hands again, to make fresh patterns in the sand, to speak swiftly once more.
"Shall I stop him?"
"Please."
"Then would you mind going out into the garden? I will join you in a moment. Take care not to disturb him."
She got up with precaution, held her skirts together with her hands, and slipped softly out on to the garden path. For a moment she was inclined to wait there, to look back and see what was happening in the /fumoir/. But she resisted her inclination, and walked on slowly till she reached the bench where she had sat an hour before with Androvsky.
There she sat down and waited. In a few minutes she saw the Count coming towards her alone. His face was very grave, but lightened with a slight smile when he saw her.
"He has gone?" she asked.
"Yes."
He was about to sit beside her, but she said quickly:
"Would you mind going back to the jamelon tree?"
"Where we sat this morning?"
"Was it only--yes."
"Certainly."
"Oh; but you are going away to-morrow! You have a lot to do probably?"
"Nothing. My men will arrange everything."
She got up, and they walked in silence till they saw once more the immense spaces of the desert bathed in the afternoon sun. As Domini looked at them again she knew that their wonder, their meaning, had increased for her. The steady crescendo that was beginning almost to frighten her was maintained--the crescendo of the voice of the Sahara.
To what tremendous demonstration was this crescendo tending, to what ultimate glory or terror? She felt that her soul was as yet too undeveloped to conceive. The Diviner had been right. There was a veil around it, like the veil of the womb that hides the unborn child.
Under the jamelon tree she sat down once more.
"May--I light a cigar?" the Count asked.
"Do."
He struck a match, lit a cigar, and sat down on her left, by the garden wall.
"Tell me frankly," he said. "Do you wish to talk or to be silent?"
"I wish to speak to you."
"I am sorry now I asked you to test Aloui's powers."
"Why?"
"Because I fear they made an unpleasant impression upon you."
"That was not why I made you stop him."
"No?"
"You don't understand me. I was not afraid. I can only say that, but I can't give you my reason for stopping him. I wished to tell you that it was not fear."
"I believe--I know that you are fearless," he said with an unusual warmth. "You are sure that I don't understand you?"
"Remember the refrain of the Freed Negroes' song!"
"Ah, yes--those black fellows. But I know something of you, Miss Enfilden--yes, I do."
"I would rather you did--you and your garden."
"And--some day--I should like you to know a little more of me."
"Thank you. When will you come back?"
"I can't tell. But you are not leaving?"
"Not yet."
The idea of leaving Beni-Mora troubled her heart strangely.
"No, I am too happy here."
"Are you really happy?"
"At any rate I am happier than I have ever been before."
"You are on the verge."
He was looking at her with eyes in which there was tenderness, but suddenly they flashed fire, and he exclaimed:
"My desert land must not bring you despair."
She was startled by his sudden vehemence.
"What I would not hear!" she said. "You know it!"
"It is not my fault. I am ready to tell it to you."
"No. But do you believe it? Do you believe that man can read the future in the sand? How can it be?"
"How can a thousand things be? How can these desert men stand in fire, with their naked feet set on burning brands, with burning brands under their armpits, and not be burned? How can they pierce themselves with skewers and cut themselves with knives and no blood flow? But I told you the first day I met you; the desert always makes me the same gift when I return to it."
"What gift?"
"The gift of belief."
"Then you do believe in that man--Aloui?"
"Do you?"
"I can only say that it seemed to me as if it might be divination. If I had not felt that I should not have stopped it. I should have treated it as a game."
"It impressed you as it impresses me. Well, for both of us the desert has gifts. Let us accept them fearlessly. It is the will of Allah."
She remembered her vision of the pale procession. Would she walk in it at last?
"You are as fatalistic as an Arab," she said.
"And you?"
"I!" she answered simply. "I believe that I am in the hands of God, and I know that perfect love can never harm me."
After a moment he said, gently:
"Miss Enfilden, I want to ask something of you."
"Yes?"
"Will you make a sacrifice? To-morrow I start at dawn. Will you be here to wish me God speed on my journey?"
"Of course I will."
"It will be good of you. I shall value it from you. And--and when--if you ever make your long journey on that road--the route to the south--I will wish you Allah's blessing in the Garden of Allah."
He spoke with solemnity, almost with passion, and she felt the tears very near her eyes. Then they sat in silence, looking out over the desert.
And she heard its voices calling.
