"
"To pray for the dead," she whispered, as if to herself. "To pray for
my dead--I could not do it--I could not. Boris, if you love me you must
trust me, you must give me your sorrow."
The night drew on. Androvsky had gone to the priest. Domini was alone,
sitting before the tent waiting for his return. She had told Batouch and
Ouardi that she wanted nothing more, that no one was to come to the tent
again that night. The young moon was rising over the city, but its light
as yet was faint. It fell upon the cupolas of the Bureau Arabe, the
towers of the mosque and the white sands, whose whiteness it seemed to
emphasise, making them pale as the face of one terror-stricken. The
city wall cast a deep shadow over the moat of sand in which, wrapped
in filthy rags, lay nomads sleeping. Upon the sand-hills the camps were
alive with movement. Fires blazed and smoke ascended before the tents
that made patches of blackness upon the waste. Round the fires were
seated groups of men devouring cous-cous and the red soup beloved of the
nomad. Behind them circled the dogs with quivering nostrils. Squadrons
of camels lay crouched in the sand, resting after their journeys.
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