Even
the society of Beclere was answerable for his suffering, and he
thought how he must go away and travel again; only open solitude and
wandering with rough men could still his pain; primitive Nature was
the one balm.... That fellow Tahar--why did he delay? Owen thought
of the eagles, the awful bird pursuing the fleeting deer, and
himself riding in pursuit. This was the life that would cure him--
how soon? In three months? in six? in ten years? It would be strange
if he were to become a bedouin for love of her, and he walked on
thinking how they had lain together one night listening to the
silence, hearing nothing but an acacia moving outside their window.
Beclere was coming towards him and the vision vanished.
"No news of Tahar yet?"
"No; you are forgetting that we are living in an oasis, where letters
are not delivered, and where we bring news of ourselves, and where
no news is understood to mean that the spring we were hastening
towards was dry, or that a sand-storm--"
"Sand-storms are rare at this season of the year."
"An old bedouin like Tahar is safe enough. To-morrow or the day
after... but I see you are impatient, you are growing tired of my
company.
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