The vastness of the desert appalled her. The red
moon held within its circle all the blood of the martyrs, of life, of
ideals. She shivered in the saddle. Her nature seemed to shrink and
quiver, and a cry for protection rose within her, the cry of the woman
who cannot face life alone, who must find a protector, and who must
cling to a strong arm, who needs man as the world needs God.
Then again it seemed to her that she saw Androvsky galloping upon a
horse as if pursued.
Moved by a desire to do something to combat this strange despair,
born of the moonrise and the night, she sat erect in her saddle, and
resolutely looked at the desert, striving to get away from herself in
a hard contemplation of the details that surrounded her, the outward
things that were coming each moment into clearer view. She gazed
steadily towards the palms that sharply cut the moonlight. As she did so
something black moved away from them, as if it had been part of them
and now detached itself with the intention of approaching her along the
track. At first it was merely a moving blot, formless and small, but
as it drew nearer she saw that it was a horseman riding slowly, perhaps
stealthily, across the sand.
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