reins they held. For a moment she felt that she must
break down, that she had no more strength left in her. But they came to
the statue of the Cardinal holding the double cross towards the desert
like a weapon. And she looked at it and saw the Christ.

"Boris," she whispered, "there is the Christ. Let us think only of that
tonight."

She saw him look at it steadily.

"You remember," she said, at the bottom of the avenue of cypresses--"at
El-Largani--_Factus obediens usque ad mortem Crucis_?"

"Yes, Domini."

"We can be obedient too. Let us be obedient too."

When she said that, and looked at him, Androvsky felt as if he were on
his knees before her, as he was upon his knees in the garden when he
could not go away. But he felt, too, that then, though he had loved her,
he had not known how to love her, how to love anyone. She had taught him
now. The lesson sank into his heart like a sword and like balm. It was
as if he were slain and healed by the same stroke.

That night, as Domini lay in the lonely room in the hotel, with the
French windows open to the verandah, she heard the church clock chime
the hour and the distant sound of the African hautboy in the street of
the dancers, she heard again the two voices. The hautboy was barbarous
and provocative, but she thought that it was no more shrill with a
persistent triumph. Presently the church bell chimed again.

Was it the bell of the church of Beni-Mora, or the bell of the chapel
of El-Largani? Or was it not rather the voice of the great religion to
which she belonged, to which Androvsky was returning?

When it ceased she whispered to herself, "_Factus obediens usque ad
mortem Crucis_." And with these words upon her lips towards dawn
she fell asleep. They had dined upstairs in the little room that had
formerly been Domini's salon, and had not seen Father Roubier, who
always came to the hotel to take his evening meal. In the morning, after
they had breakfasted, Androvsky said:

"Domini, I will go. I will go now."

He got up and stood by her, looking down at her. In his face there was a
sort of sternness, a set expression.

"To Father Roubier, Boris?" she said.

"Yes. Before I go won't you--won't you give me your hand?"

She understood all the agony of spirit he was enduring, all the shame
against which he was fighting. She longed to spring up, to take him in
her arms, to comfort him as only the woman he loves and who loves him
can comfort a man, without w