s, was visible a shallow pool of still water by which tall reeds
were growing. They stood up like spears, absolutely motionless. A frog
was piping from some hidden place, giving forth a clear flute-like note
that suggested glass. It reminded Domini of her ride into the desert
at Beni-Mora to see the moon rise. On that night Androvsky had told
her that he was going away. That had been the night of his tremendous
struggle with himself. When he had spoken she had felt a sensation as if
everything that supported her in the atmosphere of life and of happiness
had foundered. And now--now she was going to speak to him--to tell
him--what was she going to tell him? How much could she, dared she, tell
him? She prayed silently to be given strength.

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

Domini stood for a moment looking at the water listening. Then she
glanced 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 the
palms--palms are always beautiful, especially at night. I shall never
love 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. The
stillness of the water, the stillness of reeds and palms, was against
speech. And the little flute-like note that came to them again and again
at regular intervals was like a magical measuring of the silence of the
night 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 the
moon 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, one
hand 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 I
had done what I meant to do that night, what would our lives have been
to-day?"

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

He said nothing