/hotellerie/； of which I had the key。 When it was night I unlocked the
door。 I walked to the cemeterybetween the Stations of the Cross。
Domini； I did not see them。 In the cemetery was a ladder； as I told
you。
〃Just before dawn I reached my brother's house outside of Tunis； not
far from the Bardo。 I knocked。 My brother himself came down to know
who was there。 He； as I told you； was without religion； and had always
hated my being a monk。 I told him all； without reserve。 I said； 'Help
me to go away。 Let me go anywherealone。' He gave me clothes； money。
I shaved off my beard and moustache。 I shaved my head； so that the
tonsure was no longer visible。 In the afternoon of that day I left
Tunis。 I was let loose into life。 DominiDomini； I won't tell you
where I wandered till I came to the desert； till I met you。
〃I was let loose into life； but； with my freedom； the wish to live
seemed to die in me。 I was afraid of life。 I was haunted by terrors。 I
had been a monk so long that I did not know how to live as other men。
I did not live； I never livedtill I met you。 And thenthen I
realised what life may be。 And then； too； I realised fully what I was。
I struggled； I fought myself。 You knownow； if you look back； I think
you know that I triedsometimes； oftenI tried totoI tried
to〃
His voice broke。
〃That last day in the garden I thought that I had conquered myself；
and it was in that moment that I fell for ever。 When I knew you loved
me I could fight no more。 Do you understand？ You have seen me； you
have lived with me； you have divined my misery。 But don'tdon't
think； Domini； that it ever came from you。 It was the consciousness of
my lie to you； my lie to God； thatthatI can't go onI can't tell
youI can't tell youyou know。〃
He was silent。 Domini said nothing； did not move。 He did not look at
her； but her silence seemed to terrify him。 He drew back from it
sharply and turned to the desert。 He stared across the vast spaces lit
up by the moon。 Still she did not move。
〃I'll goI'll go！〃 he muttered。
And he stepped forward。 Then Domini spoke。
〃Boris！〃 she said。
He stopped。
〃What is it？〃 he murmured hoarsely。
〃Boris； now at last youyou can pray。〃
He looked at her as if awe…stricken。
〃Pray！〃 he whispered。 〃You tell me I can praynow！〃
〃Now at last。〃
She went into the tent and left him alone。 He stood where he was for a
moment。 He knew that； in the tent； she was praying。 He stood； trying
to listen to her prayer。 Then； with an uncertain hand； he felt in his
breast。 He drew out the wooden crucifix。 He bent down his head；
touched it with his lips； and fell upon his knees in the desert。
The music had ceased in the city。 There was a great silence。
BOOK VI。 THE JOURNEY BACK
CHAPTER XXVII
The good priest of Amara； strolling by chance at the dinner…hour of
the following day towards the camp of the hospitable strangers； was
surprised and saddened to find only the sand…hill strewn with debris。
The tents； the camels； the mules； the horsesall were gone。 No
servants greeted him。 No cook was busy。 No kind hostess bade him come
in and stay to dine。 Forlornly he glanced around and made inquiry。 An
Arab told him that in the morning the camp had been struck and ere
noon was far on its way towards the north。 The priest had been on
horseback to an neighbouring oasis； so had heard nothing of this
flitting。 He asked its explanation； and was told a hundred lies。 The
one most often repeated was to the effect that Monsieur； the husband
of Madame； was overcome by the heat； and that for this reason the
travellers were making their way towards the cooler climate that lay
beyond the desert。
As he heard this a sensation of loneliness came to the priest。 His
usually cheerful countenance was overcast with gloom。 For a moment he
loathed his fate in the sands and sighed for the fleshpots of
civilisation。 With his white umbrella spread above his helmet he stood
still and gazed towards the north across the vast spaces that were
lemon…yellow in the sunset。 He fancied that on the horizon he saw
faintly a cloud of sand grains whirling； and imagined it stirred up by
the strangers' caravan。 Then he thought of the rich lands of the Tell；
of the olive groves of Tunis； of the blue Mediterranean； of France；
his country which he had not seen for many years。 He sighed
profoundly。
〃Happy people；〃 he thought to himself。 〃Rich； free； able to do as they
like； to go where they will！ Why was I born to live in the sand and to
be alone？〃
He was moved by envy。 But then he remembered his intercourse with
Androvsky on the previous day。
〃After all；〃 he thought more comfortably； 〃he did not look a happy
man！〃 And he took himself to task for his sin of envy； and strolled to
the inn by the fountain where he paid his pension。
The same day； in the house of the marabout of Beni…Hassan； Count
Anteoni received a letter brought from Amara by an Arab。 It was as
follows：
〃AMARA。
〃MY DEAR FRIEND： Good…bye。 We are just leaving。 I had expected to
be here longer； but we must go。 We are returning to the north and
shall not penetrate farther into the desert。 I shall think of you；
and of your journey on among the people of your faith。 You said to
me； when we sat in the tent door； that now you could pray in the
desert。 Pray in the desert for us。 And one thing more。 If you
never return to Beni…Mora； and your garden is to pass into other
hands； don't let it go into the hands of a stranger。 I could not
bear that。 Let it come to me。 At any price you name。 Forgive me
for writing thus。 Perhaps you will return； or perhaps； even if you
do not； you will keep your garden。Your Friend； DOMINI。〃
In a postscript was an address which would always find her。
Count Anteoni read this letter two or three times carefully； with a
grave face。
〃Why did she not put Domini Androvsky？〃 he said to himself。 He locked
the letter in a drawer。 All that night he was haunted by thoughts of
the garden。 Again and again it seemed to him that he stood with Domini
beside the white wall and saw； in the burning distance of the desert；
at the call of the Mueddin； the Arabs bowing themselves in prayer； and
the manthe man to whom now she had bound herself by the most holy
tiefleeing from prayer as if in horror。
〃But it was written；〃 he murmured to himself。 〃It was written in the
sand and in fire： 'The fate of every man have we bound about his
neck。'〃
In the dawn when； turning towards the rising sun； he prayed； he
remembered Domini and her words： 〃Pray in the desert for us。〃 And in
the Garden of Allah he prayed to Allah for her； and for Androvsky。
Meanwhile the camp had been struck； and the first stage of the journey
northward； the journey back； had been accomplished。 Domini had given
the order of departure； but she had first spoken with Androvsky。
After his narrative； and her words that followed it； he did not come
into the tent。 She did not ask him to。 She did not see him in the
moonlight beyond the tent； or when the moonlight waned before the
coming of the dawn。 She was upon her knees； her face hidden in her
hands； striving as surely few human beings have ever had to strive in
the difficult paths of life。 At first she had felt almost calm。 When
she had spoken to Androvsky there had even been a strange sensation
that was not unlike triumph in her heart。 In this triumph she had felt
disembodied； as if she were a spirit standing there； removed from
earthly suffering； but able to contemplate； to understand； to pity it；
removed from earthly sin； but able to commit an action that might help
to purge it。
When she said to Androvsky； 〃Now you can pray；〃 she had passed into a
region where self had no existence。 Her whole soul was intent upon
this man to whom she had given all the treasures of her heart and whom
she knew to be writhing as souls writhe in Purgatory。 He had spoken at
last； he had laid bare his misery； his crime； he had laid bare the
agony of one who had insulted God； but who repented his insult； who
had wandered far away from God； but who could never be happy in his
wandering； who could never be at peace even in a mighty human love
unless that love was consecrated by God's contentment with it。 As she
stood there Domini had had an instant of absolutely clear sight into
the depths of another's heart； another's nature。 She had seen the monk
in Androvsky； not slain by his act of rejection； but alive； sorrow…
stricken； quivering； scourged。 And she had been able to tell this monk
as God seemed to be telling her； making of her his messengerthat
now at last he might pray to a God who again would hear him； as He had
heard him in the garden of El…Largani； in his cell； in the chapel； in
the fields。 She had been able to do this。 Then she had turned away；
gone into the tent and fallen upon her knees。
But with that personal action her sense of triumph passed away。 As her
body sank down her soul seemed to sink down with it into bottomless
depths of blackness where no light had ever been； into an underworld；
airless； peopled with invisible violence。 And it seemed to her as if
it was her previous flight upward which had caused this descent into a