The Garden of Allah

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  A silence had fallen between Domini and Androvsky which neither seemedable to break. They rode on side by side across the sands towards thenorth through the long day. The tower of Amara faded in the sunshineabove the white crests of the dunes. The Arab villages upon their littlehills disappeared in the quivering gold. New vistas of desert openedbefore them, oases crowded with palms, salt lakes and stony ground. Theypassed by native towns. They saw the negro gardeners laughing amongthe rills of yellow water, or climbing with bare feet the wrinkled treetrunks to lop away dead branches. They heard tiny goatherds piping,solitary, in the wastes. Dreams of the mirage rose and faded far offon the horizon, rose and faded mystically, leaving no trembling tracebehind. And they were silent as the mirage, she in her purpose, he inhis wonder. And the long day waned, and towards evening the camp waspitched and the evening meal was prepared. And still they could notspeak.

  Sometimes Androvsky watched her, and there was a great calm in her face,but there was no rebuke, no smallness of anger, no hint of despair.Always he had felt her strength of mind and body, but never so much asnow. Could he rest on it? Dared he? He did not know. And the day seemedto him to become a dream, and the silence recalled to him the silence ofthe monastery in which he had worshipped God before the strangercame. He thought that in this silence he ought to feel that she wasdeliberately raising barriers between them, but--it was strange--hecould not feel this. In her silence there was no bitterness. When isthere bitterness in strength? He rode on and on beside her, and hissense of a dream deepened, helped by the influence of the desert. Wherewere they going? He did not know. What was her purpose? He could nottell. But he felt that she had a purpose, that her mind was resolved.Now and then, tearing himself with an effort from the dream, he askedhimself what it could be. What could be in store for him, for them,after the thing he had told? What could be their mutual life? Must itnot be for ever at an end? Was it not shattered? Was it not dust, likethe dust of the desert that rose round their horses' feet? The silencedid not tell him, and again he ceased from wondering and the dreamclosed round him. Were they not travelling in a mirage, mirage people,unreal, phantomlike, who would presently fade away into the spaces ofthe sun? The sand muffled the tread of the horses' feet. The desertunderstood their silence, clothed it in a silence more vast and moreimpenetrable. And Androvsky had made his effort. He had spoken the truthat last. He could do no more. He was incapable of any further action. AsDomini felt herself to be in the hands of God, he felt himself to bein the hands of this woman who had received his confession withthis wonderful calm, who was leading him he knew not whither in thiswonderful silence.

  When the camp was pitched, however, he noticed something that caughthim sharply away from the dreamlike, unreal feeling, and set him face toface with fact that was cold as steel. Always till now the dressing-tenthad been pitched beside their sleeping-tent, with the flap of theentrance removed so that the two tents communicated. To-night it stoodapart, near the sleeping-tent, and in it was placed one of the smallcamp beds. Androvsky was alone when he saw this. On reaching thehalting-place he had walked a little way into the desert. When hereturned he found this change. It told him something of what was passingin Domini's mind, and it marked the transformation of their mutual life.As he gazed at the two tents he felt stricken, yet he felt a curioussense of something that was like--was it not like--relief? It was as ifhis body had received a frightful blow and on his soul a saint's handhad been gently laid, as if something fell about him in ruins, and atthe same time a building which he loved, and which for a moment he hadthought tottering, stood firm before him founded upon rock. He was a mancapable of a passionate belief, despite his sin, and he had always had apassionate belief in Domini's religion. That morning, when she came outto him in the sand, a momentary doubt had assailed him. He had known thethought, "Does she love me still--does she love me more than sheloves God, more than she loves his dictates manifested in the Catholicreligion?" When she said that word "together" that had been his thought.Now, as he looked at the two tents, a white light seemed to fall uponDomini's character, and in this white light stood the ruin and the housethat was founded upon a rock. He was torn by conflicting sensationsof despair and triumph. She was what he had believed. That made thetriumph. But since she was that where was his future with her? The monkand the man who had fled from the monastery stood up within him to dobattle. The monk knew triumph, but the man was in torment.

  Presently, as Androvsky looked at the two tents, the monk in him seemedto die a new death, the man who had left the monastery to know a newresurrection. He was seized by a furious desire to go backward in time,to go backward but a few hours, to the moment when Domini did not knowwhat now she knew. He cursed himself for what he had done. At last hehad been able to pray. Yes, but what was prayer now, what was prayer tothe man who looked at the two tents and understood what they meant? Hemoved away and began to walk up and down near to the two tents. He didnot know where Domini was. At a little distance he saw the servantsbusy preparing the evening meal. Smoke rose up before the cook's tent,curling away stealthily among a group of palm trees, beneath which someArab boys were huddled, staring with wide eyes at the unusual sight oftravellers. They came from a tiny village at a short distance off, halfhidden among palm gardens. The camels were feeding. A mule was rollingvoluptuously in the sand. At a well a shepherd was watering his flocks,which crowded about him baaing expectantly. The air seemed to breatheout a subtle aroma of peace and of liberty. And this apparent presenceof peace, this vision of the calm of others, human beings and animals,added to the torture of Androvsky. As he walked to and fro he felt asif he were being devoured by his passions, as if he were losing thelast vestiges of self-control. Never in the monastery, never even in thenight when he left it, had he been tormented like this. For now he hada terrible companion whom, at that time, he had not known. Memory walkedwith him before the tents, the memory of his body, recalling and callingfor the past.

  He had destroyed that past himself. But for him it might have been alsothe present, the future. It might have lasted for years, perhaps tilldeath took him or Domini. Why not? He had only had to keep silence, toinsist on remaining in the desert, far from the busy ways of men.They could have lived as certain others lived, who loved the free, thesolitary life, in an oasis of their own, tending their gardens of palms.Life would have gone like a sunlit dream. And death? At that thought heshuddered. Death--what would that have been to him? What would it be nowwhen it came? He put the thought from him with force, as a man thrustsaway from him the filthy hand of a clamouring stranger assailing him inthe street.

  This evening he had no time to think of death. Life was enough, lifewith this terror which he had deliberately placed in it.

  He thought of himself as a madman for having spoken to Domini. He cursedhimself as a madman. For he knew, although he strove furiously not toknow, how irrevocable was his act, in consequence of the great strengthof her nature. He knew that though she had been to him a woman of fireshe might be to him a woman of iron--even to him whom she loved.

  How she had loved him!

  He walked faster before the tents, to and fro.

  How she had loved him! How she loved him still, at this moment after sheknew what he was, what he had done to her. He had no doubt of her loveas he walked there. He felt it, like a tender hand upon him. But thathand was inflexible too. In its softness there was firmness--firmnessthat would never yield to any strength in him.

  Those two tents told him the story of her strength. As he looked at themhe was looking into her soul. And her soul was in direct conflict withhis. That was what he felt. She had thought, she had made up her mind.Quietly, silently she had acted. By that action, without a word, she hadspoken to him, told him a tremendous thing. And the man--the passionateman who had left the monastery--loose in him now was aflame with animpotent desire that was like a heat of fury against her, while themonk, hidden far down in him, was secretly worshipping her cleanlinessof spi
rit.

  But the man who had left the monastery was in the ascendant in him, andat last drove him to a determination that the monk secretly knew to beutterly vain. He made up his mind to enter into conflict with Domini'sstrength. He felt that he must, that he could not quietly, without aword, accept this sudden new life of separation symbolised for him bythe two tents standing apart.

  He stood still. In the distance, under the palms, he saw Batouchlaughing with Ouardi. Near them Ali was reposing on a mat, moving hishead from side to side, smiling with half-shut, vacant eyes, and singinga languid song.

  This music maddened him.

  "Batouch!" he called out sharply. "Batouch!"

  Batouch stopped laughing, glanced round, then came towards him with alarge pace, swinging from his hips.

  "Monsieur?"

  "Batouch!" Androvsky said.

  But he could not go on. He could not say anything about the two tents toa servant.

  "Where--where is Madame?" he said almost stammering.

  "Out there, Monsieur."

  With a sweeping arm the poet pointed towards a hump of sand crowned bya few palms. Domini was sitting there, surrounded by Arab children, towhom she was giving sweets out of a box. As Androvsky saw her the angerin him burnt up more fiercely. This action of Domini's, simple, naturalthough it was, seemed to him in his present condition cruelly heartless.He thought of her giving the order about the tents and then going calmlyto play with these children, while he--while he----

  "You can go, Batouch," he said. "Go away."

  The poet stared at him with a superb surprise, then moved slowly towardsOuardi, holding his burnous with his large hands.

  Androvsky looked again at the two tents as a man looks at two enemies.Then, walking quickly, he went towards the hump of sand. As heapproached it Domini had her side face turned towards him. She did notsee him. The little Arabs were dancing round her on their naked feet,laughing, showing their white teeth and opening their mouths wide forthe sugar-plums--gaiety incarnate. Androvsky gazed at the woman who wascausing this childish joy, and he saw a profound sadness. Never hadhe seen Domini's face look like this. It was always white, but now itswhiteness was like a whiteness of marble. She moved her head, turning tofeed one of the little gaping mouths, and he saw her eyes, tearless,but sadder than if they had been full of tears. She was looking at thesechildren as a mother looks at her children who are fatherless. He didnot--how could he?--understand the look, but it went to his heart.He stopped, watching. One of the children saw him, shrieked, pointed.Domini glanced round. As she saw him she smiled, threw the lastsugar-plums and came towards him.

  "Do you want me?" she said, coming up to him.

  His lips trembled.

  "Yes," he said, "I want you."

  Something in his voice seemed to startle her, but she said nothing more,only stood looking at him. The children, who had followed her, crowdedround them, touching their clothes curiously.

  "Send them away," he said.

  She made the children go, pushing them gently, pointing to the village,and showing the empty box to them. Reluctantly at last they went towardsthe village, turning their heads to stare at her till they were a longway off, then holding up their skirts and racing for the houses.

  "Domini--Domini," he said. "You can--you can play withchildren--to-day."

  "I wanted to feel I could give a little happiness to-day," sheanswered--"even to-day."

  "To-day when--when to me--to me--you are giving----"

  But before her steady gaze all the words he had meant to say, all thewords of furious protest, died on his lips.

  "To me--to me--" he repeated.

  Then he was silent.

  "Boris," she said, "I want to give you one thing, the thing that youhave lost. I want to give you back peace."

  "You never can."

  "I must try. Even if I cannot I shall know that I have tried."

  "You are giving me--you are giving me not peace, but a sword," he said.

  She understood that he had seen the two tents.

  "Sometimes a sword can give peace."

  "The peace of death."

  "Boris--my dear one--there are many kinds of deaths. Try to trust me.Leave me to act as I must act. Let me try to be guided--only let metry."

  He did not say another word.

  That night they slept apart for the first time since their marriage.

  "Domini, where are you taking me? Where are we going?"

  * * * * *

  The camp was struck once more and they were riding through the desert.Domini hesitated to answer his question. It had been put with a sort ofterror.

  "I know nothing," he continued. "I am in your hands like a child. Itcannot be always so. I must know, I must understand. What is our life tobe? What is our future? A man cannot--"

  He paused. Then he said:

  "I feel that you have come to some resolve. I feel it perpetually. Itis as if you were in light and I in darkness, you in knowledge and I inignorance. You--you must tell me. I have told you all now. You must tellme."

  But she hesitated.

  "Not now," she answered. "Not yet."

  "We are to journey on day by day like this, and I am not to know wherewe are going! I cannot, Domini--I will not."

  "Boris, I shall tell you."

  "When?"

  "Will you trust me, Boris, completely? Can you?"

  "How?"

  "Boris, I have prayed so much for you that at last I feel that I can actfor you. Don't think me presumptuous. If you could see into my heart youwould see that--indeed, I don't think it would be possible to feel morehumble than I do in regard to you."

  "Humble--you, Domini! You can feel humble when you think of me, when youare with me."

  "Yes. You have suffered so terribly. God has led you. I feel that He hasbeen--oh, I don't know how to say it quite naturally, quite as I feelit--that He has been more intent on you than on anyone I have everknown. I feel that His meaning in regarding to you is intense, Boris, asif He would not let you go."

  "He let me go when I left the monastery."

  "Does one never return?"

  Again a sensation almost of terror assailed him. He felt as if he werefighting in darkness something that he could not see.

  "Return!" he said. "What do you mean?"

  She saw the expression of almost angry fear in his face. It warned hernot to give the reins to her natural impulse, which was always towards agreat frankness.

  "Boris, you fled from God, but do you not think it possible that youcould ever return to Him? Have you not taken the first step? Have younot prayed?" His face changed, grew slightly calmer.

  "You told me I could pray," he answered, almost like a child. "OtherwiseI--I should not have dared to. I should have felt that I was insultingGod."

  "If you trusted me in such a thing, can you not trust me now?"

  "But"--he said uneasily--"but this is different, a worldly matter, amatter of daily life. I shall have to know."

  "Yes."

  "Then why should I not know now? At any moment I could ask Batouch."

  "Batouch only knows from day to day. I have a map of the desert. I gotit before we left Beni-Mora."

  Something--perhaps a very slight hesitation in her voice just before shesaid the last words--startled him. He turned on his horse and looked ather hard.

  "Domini," he said, "are we--we are not going back to Beni-Mora?"

  "I will tell you to-night," she replied in a low voice. "Let me tell youtonight."

  He said no more, but he gazed at her for a long time as if strivingpassionately to read her thoughts. But he could not. Her white facewas calm, and she rode looking straight before her, as one that lookedtowards some distant goal to which all her soul was journeying withher body. There was something mystical in her face, in that straight,far-seeing glance, that surely pierced beyond the blue horizon line andreached a faroff world. What world? He asked himself the question, butno answer came, and he dropped his eyes. A new and ho
rrible sadness cameto him, a new sensation of separation from Domini. She had set theirbodies apart, and he had yielded. Now, was she not setting somethingelse apart? For, in spite of all, in spite of his treacherous existencewith her, he had so deeply and entirely loved her that he had sometimesfelt, dared to feel, that in their passion in the desert their souls hadbeen fused together. His was black--he knew it--and hers was white. Buthad not the fire and the depth of their love conquered all differences,made even their souls one as their bodies had been one? And now wasshe not silently, subtly, withdrawing her soul from his? A sensation ofacute despair swept over him, of utter impotence.

  "Domini!" he said, "Domini!"

  "Yes," she answered.

  And this time she withdrew her eyes from the blue distance and looked athim.

  "Domini, you must trust me."

  He was thinking of the two tents set the one apart from the other.

  "Domini, I've borne something in silence. I haven't spoken. I wantedto speak. I tried--but I did not. I bore my punishment--you don't know,you'll never know what I felt last--last night--when--I've borne that.But there's one thing I can't bear. I've lived a lie with you. My lovefor you overcame me. I fell. I have told you that I fell. Don't--don'tbecause of that--don't take away your heart from me entirely.Domini--Domini--don't do that."

  She heard a sound of despair in his voice.

  "Oh, Boris," she said, "if you knew! There was only one moment when Ifancied my heart was leaving you. It passed almost before it came, andnow--"

  "But," he interrupted, "do you know--do you know that since--since Ispoke, since I told you, you've--you've never touched me?"

  "Yes, I know it," she replied quietly.

  Something told him to be silent then. Something told him to wait tillthe night came and the camp was pitched once more.

  They rested at noon for several hours, as it was impossible to travelin the heat of the day. The camp started an hour before they did. OnlyBatouch remained behind to show them the way to Ain-la-Hammam, wherethey would pass the following night. When Batouch brought the horses hesaid:

  "Does Madame know the meaning of Ain-la-Hammam?"

  "No," said Domini. "What is it?"

  "Source des tourterelles," replied Batouch. "I was there once with anEnglish traveller."

  "Source des tourterelles," repeated Domini. "Is it beautiful, Batouch?It sounds as if it ought to be beautiful."

  She scarcely knew why, but she had a longing that Ain-la-Hammam might betender, calm, a place to soothe the spirit, a place in which Androvskymight be influenced to listen to what she had to tell him withoutrevolt, without despair. Once he had spoken about the influence ofplace, about rising superior to it. But she believed in it, and shewaited, almost anxiously, for the reply of Batouch. As usual it wasenigmatic.

  "Madame will see," he answered. "Madame will see. But theEnglishman----"

  "Yes?"

  "The Englishman was ravished. 'This,' he said to me, 'this, Batouch, isa little Paradise!' And there was no moon then. To-night there will be amoon."

  "Paradise!" exclaimed Androvsky.

  He sprang upon his horse and pulled up the reins. Domini said no more.They had started late. It was night when they reached Ain-la-Hammam. Asthey drew near Domini looked before her eagerly through the pale gloomthat hung over the sand. She saw no village, only a very small grove ofpalms and near it the outline of a bordj. The place was set in a cup ofthe Sahara. All around it rose low hummocks of sand. On two or three ofthem were isolated clumps of palms. Here the eyes roamed over no vastdistances. There was little suggestion of space. She drew up her horseon one of the hummocks and gazed down. She heard doves murmuring intheir soft voices among the trees. The tents were pitched near thebordj.

  "What does Madame think?" asked Batouch. "Does Madame agree with theEnglishman?"

  "It is a strange little place," she answered.

  She listened to the voices of the doves. A dog barked by the bordj.

  "It is almost like a hiding-place," she added.

  Androvsky said nothing, but he, too, was gazing intently at the treesbelow them, he, too, was listening to the voices of the doves. After amoment he looked at her.

  "Domini," he whispered. "Here--won't you--won't you let me touch yourhand again here?"

  "Come, Boris," she answered. "It is late."

  They rode down into Ain-la-Hammam.

  The tents had all been pitched near together on the south of the bordj,and separated by it from the tiny oasis. Opposite to them was a CafeMaure of the humblest kind, a hovel of baked earth and brushwood, withearthen divans and a coffee niche. Before this was squatting a groupof five dirty desert men, the sole inhabitants of Ain-la-Hammam. Justbefore dinner Domini gave an order to Batouch, and, while they weredining, Androvsky noticed that their people were busy unpegging the twosleeping-tents.

  "What are they doing?" he said to Domini, uneasily. In his presentcondition everything roused in him anxiety. In every unusual action hediscerned the beginning of some tragedy which might affect his life.

  "I told Batouch to put our tents on the other side of the bordj," sheanswered.

  "Yes. But why?"

  "I thought that to-night it would be better if we were a little morealone than we are here, just opposite to that Cafe Maure, and with theservants. And on the other side there are the palms and the water. Andthe doves were talking there as we rode in. When we have finished dinnerwe can go and sit there and be quiet."

  "Together," he said.

  An eager light had come into his eyes. He leaned forward towards herover the little table and stretched out his hand.

  "Yes, together," she said.

  But she did not take his hand.

  "Domini!" he said, still keeping his hand on the table, "Domini!"

  An expression, that was like an expression of agony, flitted over herface and died away, leaving it calm.

  "Let us finish," she said quietly. "Look, they have taken the tents! Ina moment we can go."

  The doves were silent. The night was very still in this nest of theSahara. Ouardi brought them coffee, and Batouch came to say that thetents were ready.

  "We shall want nothing more to-night, Batouch," Domini said. "Don'tdisturb us."

  Batouch glanced towards the Cafe Maure. A red light gleamed throughits low doorway. One or two Arabs were moving within. Some of the campattendants had joined the squatting men without. A noise of busy voicesreached the tents.

  "To-night, Madame," Batouch said proudly, "I am going to tell storiesfrom the _Thousand and One Nights_. I am going to tell the story of theyoung Prince of the Indies, and the story of Ganem, the Slave of Love.It is not often that in Ain-la-Hammam a poet--"

  "No, indeed. Go to them, Batouch. They must be impatient for you."

  Batouch smiled broadly.

  "Madame begins to understand the Arabs," he rejoined. "Madame will soonbe as the Arabs."

  "Go, Batouch. Look--they are longing for you."

  She pointed to the desert men, who were gesticulating and gazing towardsthe tents.

  "It is better so, Madame," he answered. "They know that I am here onlyfor one night, and they are eager as the hungry jackal is eager for foodamong the yellow dunes of the sand."

  He threw his burnous over his shoulder and moved away smiling, andmurmuring in a luscious voice the first words of Ganem, the Slave ofLove.

  "Let us go now, Boris," Domini said.

  He got up at once from the table, and they walked together round thebordj.

  On its further side there was no sign of life. No traveller was restingthere that night, and the big door that led into the inner court wasclosed and barred. The guardian had gone to join the Arabs at the CafeMaure. Between the shadow cast by the bordj and the shadow cast bythe palm trees stood the two tents on a patch of sand. The oasis wasenclosed in a low earth wall, along the top of which was a ragged edgingof brushwood. In this wall were several gaps. Through one, opposite tothe tents, was visible a shallow pool of still wat
er by which tall reedswere growing. They stood up like spears, absolutely motionless. A frogwas piping from some hidden place, giving forth a clear flute-like notethat suggested glass. It reminded Domini of her ride into the desertat Beni-Mora to see the moon rise. On that night Androvsky had toldher that he was going away. That had been the night of his tremendousstruggle with himself. When he had spoken she had felt a sensation as ifeverything that supported her in the atmosphere of life and of happinesshad foundered. And now--now she was going to speak to him--to tellhim--what was she going to tell him? How much could she, dared she, tellhim? She prayed silently to be given strength.

  In the clear sky the young moon hung. Beneath it, to the left, was onestar like an attendant, the star of Venus. The faint light of themoon fell upon the water of the pool. Unceasingly the frog uttered itsnocturne.

  Domini stood for a moment looking at the water listening. Then sheglanced up at the moon and the solitary star. Androvsky stood by her.

  "Shall we--let us sit on the wall, where the gap is," she said."The water is beautiful, beautiful with that light on it, and thepalms--palms are always beautiful, especially at night. I shall neverlove any other trees as I love palm trees."

  "Nor I," he answered.

  They sat down on the wall. At first they did not speak any more. Thestillness of the water, the stillness of reeds and palms, was againstspeech. And the little flute-like note that came to them again and againat regular intervals was like a magical measuring of the silence of thenight in the desert. At last Domini said, in a low voice:

  "I heard that note on the night when I rode out of Beni-Mora to see themoon rise in the desert. Boris, you remember that night?"

  "Yes," he answered.

  He was gazing at the pool, with his face partly averted from her, onehand on the wall, the other resting on his knee.

  "You were brave that night, Boris," she said.

  "I--I wished to be--I tried to be. And if I had been--"

  He stopped, then went on: "If I had been, Domini, really brave, if Ihad done what I meant to do that night, what would our lives have beento-day?"

  "I don't know. We mustn't think of that to-night. We must think of thefuture. Boris, there's no life, no real life without bravery. No man orwoman is worthy of living who is not brave."

  He said nothing.

  "Boris, let us--you and I--be worthy of living to-night--and in thefuture."

  "Give me your hand then," he answered. "Give it me, Domini."

  But she did not give it to him. Instead she went on, speaking a littlemore rapidly:

  "Boris, don't rely too much on my strength. I am only a woman, and Ihave to struggle. I have had to struggle more than perhaps you willever know. You--must not make--make things impossible for me. I amtrying--very hard--to--I'm--you must not touch me to-night, Boris."

  She drew a little farther away from him. A faint breath of air made theleaves of the palm trees rustle slightly, made the reeds move for aninstant by the pool. He laid his hand again on the wall from which hehad lifted it. There was a pleading sound in her voice which made himfeel as if it were speaking close against his heart.

  "I said I would tell you to-night where we are going."

  "Tell me now."

  "We are going back to Beni-Mora. We are not very far off from Beni-Morato-night--not very far."

  "We are going to Beni-Mora!" he repeated in a dull voice. "We are----"

  He sat up on the wall, looking straight into her face.

  "Why?" he said. His voice was sharp now, sharp with fear.

  "Boris, do you want to be at peace, not with me, but with God? Doyou want to get rid of your burden of misery, which increases--I knowit--day by day?"

  "How can I?" he said hopelessly.

  "Isn't expiation the only way? I think it is."

  "Expiation! How--how can--I can never expiate my sin."

  "There's no sin that cannot be expiated. God isn't merciless. Come backwith me to Beni-Mora. That little church--where you married me--comeback to it with me. You could not confess to the--to Father Beret. Ifeel as if I knew why. Where you married me you will--you must--makeyour confession."

  "To the priest who--to Father Roubier!"

  There was fierce protest in his voice.

  "It does not matter who is the priest who will receive your confession.Only make it there--make it in the church at Beni-Mora where you marriedme."

  "That was your purpose! That is where you are taking me! I can't go, Iwon't! Domini, think what you are doing! You are asking too much--"

  "I feel that God is asking that of you. Don't refuse Him."

  "I cannot go--at Beni-Mora where we--where everything will remind us--"

  "Ah, don't you think I shall feel it too? Don't you think I shallsuffer?"

  He felt horribly ashamed when she said that, bowed down with anoverwhelming weight of shame.

  "But our lives"--he stammered--"but--if I go--afterwards--if I make myconfession--afterwards--afterwards?"

  "Isn't it enough to think of that one thing? Isn't it better to puteverything else, every other thought, away? It seems so clear to me thatwe should go to Beni-Mora. I feel as if I had been told--as a child istold to do something by its father."

  She looked up into the clear sky.

  "I am sure I have been told," she added. "I know I have."

  There was a long silence between them. Androvsky felt that he did notdare to break it. Something in Domini's face and voice cast out from himthe instinct of revolt, of protest. He began to feel exhausted, withoutpower, like a sick man who is being carried by bearers in a litter, andwho looks at the landscape through which he is passing with listlesseyes, and who scarcely has the force to care whither he is being borne.

  "Domini," he said at last, and his voice sounded very tired, "if yousay I must go to Beni-Mora I will go. I have done you a great wrongand--and--"

  "Don't think of me any more," she said. "Think--think as Ido--of--of----

  "What am I? I have loved you, I shall always love you, but I am as youare, here for a little while, elsewhere for all eternity. You toldhim--that man in the monastery--that we are shadows set in a world ofshadows."

  "That was a lie," he interrupted, and the weariness had gone out of hisvoice. "When I said that I had never loved, I had never loved you."

  "Or was it a half-truth? Aren't we, perhaps, shadow now incomparison--comparison to what we shall be? Isn't this world, eventhis--this desert, this pool with the light on it, this silence of thenight around us--isn't all this a shadow in comparison to the worldwhere we are going, you and I? Boris, I think if we are brave now weshall be together in that world. But if we are cowards now, I think, Iam sure, that in that world--the real world--we shall be separated forever. You and I, whatever we may be, whatever we may have done, at leastare one thing--we are believers. We don't think this is all. If we didit would be different. But we can't change the truth that is in oursouls, and as we can't change it we must live by it, we must act by it.We can't do anything else. I can't--and you? Don't you feel, don't youknow, that you can't?"

  "To-night," he said, "I feel that I know nothing--nothing except that Iam suffering."

  His voice broke on the last words. Tears were shining in his eyes. Aftera long silence he said:

  "Domini, take me where you will. If it is to Beni-Mora I will go.But--but--afterwards?"

  "Afterwards----" she said.

  Then she stopped.

  The little note of the frog sounded again and again by the still wateramong the reeds. The moon was higher in the sky. "Don't let us thinkof afterwards, Boris," she said at length. "That song we have heardtogether, that song we love--'No one but God and I knows what is inmy heart.' I hear it now so often, always almost. It seems to gathermeaning, it seems to--God knows what is in your heart and mine. He willtake care of the--afterwards. Perhaps in our hearts already He has put asecret knowledge of the end."

  "Has He--has He put it--that knowledge--into yours?"

  "Hush!" she
said.

  They spoke no more that night.