ble was his act, in consequence of the great strength
of her nature. He knew that though she had been to him a woman of fire
she 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 she
knew what he was, what he had done to her. He had no doubt of her love
as he walked there. He felt it, like a tender hand upon him. But that
hand was inflexible too. In its softness there was firmness--firmness
that would never yield to any strength in him.

Those two tents told him the story of her strength. As he looked at them
he was looking into her soul. And her soul was in direct conflict with
his. 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 had
spoken to him, told him a tremendous thing. And the man--the passionate
man who had left the monastery--loose in him now was aflame with an
impotent desire that was like a heat of fury against her, while the
monk, hidden far down in him, was secretly worshipping her cleanliness
of spirit.

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

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

This music maddened him.

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

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

"Monsieur?"

"Batouch!" Androvsky said.

But he could not go on. He could not say anything about the two tents to
a 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 by
a few palms. Domini was sitting there, surrounded by Arab children, to
whom she was giving sweets out of a box. As Androvsky saw her the anger
in him burnt up more fiercely. This action of Domini's, simple,