him?

The desert air blew on her face, keen, sweet, vibrant, thrilling. What
he had heard that night at the monastery, the humming life of the land of
white fire--the desert, the million looms of all the weavers of the world
weaving, this she heard in the sunlight, with the sand rising like surf
behind her horse's heels. The misery and the tyranny and the unrequited
love were all behind her, the disillusion and the loss and the undeserved
insult to her womanhood--all, all were sunk away into the unredeemable
past. Here, in Egypt, where she had first felt the stir of life's
passion and pain and penalty, here, now, she lost herself in a beautiful,
buoyant dream. She was riding out to meet the one man of all men, hero,
crusader, rescuer--ah, that dreadful night in the Palace, and Foorgat's
face! But he was coming, who had made her live, to whom she had called,
to whom her soul had spoken in its grief and misery. Had she ever done
aught to shame the best that was in herself--and had she not been sorely
tempted? Had she not striven to love Eglington even when the worst was
come, not alone at her own soul's command, but because she knew that this
man would have it so? Broken by her own sorrow, she had left England,
Eglington--all, to keep her pledge to help him in his hour of need, to
try and save him to the world, if that might be. So she had come to
Nahoum, who was binding him down on the bed of torture and of death. And
yet, alas! not herself had conquered Nahoum, but David, as Nahoum had
said. She herself had not done this one thing which would have
compensated for all that she had suffered. This had not been permitted;
but it remained that she had come here to do it, and perhaps he would
understand when he saw her.

Yes, she knew he would understand! She flung up her head to the sun and
the pulse-stirring air, and, as she did so, she saw his cavalcade