ere running down his cheeks.
Again, on this last night of companionship, God summoned her to be
strong for him. On the edge of the hill, close to them, she saw a
Moorish temple built of marble, with narrow arches and columns, and
marble seats.

"Let us sit here for a moment, Boris," she said.

He followed her up the marble steps. Two or three times he stumbled, but
she did not give him her hand. They sat down between the slender columns
and looked out over the city, whose blanched domes and minarets were
faintly visible in the night. Androvsky was shaken with sobs.

"How can I part from you?" he said brokenly. "How am I to do it? How can
I--how can I? Why was I given this love for you, this terrible thing,
this crying out, this reaching out of the flesh and heart and soul
to you? Domini--Domini--what does it all mean--this mystery of
torture--this scourging of the body--this tearing in pieces of my soul
and yours? Domini, shall we know--shall we ever know?"

"I am sure we shall know, we shall all know some day, the meaning of the
mystery of pain. And then, perhaps, then surely, we shall each of us
be glad that we have suffered. The suffering will make the glory of our
happiness. Even now sometimes when I am suffering, Boris, I feel as if
there were a kind of splendour, even a kind of nobility in what I am
doing, as if I were proving my own soul, proving the force that God has
put into me. Boris, let us--you and I--learn to say in all this terror,
'I am unconquered, I am unconquerable.'"

"I feel that I could say that, be it in the most frightful
circumstances, if only I could sometimes see you--even far away as now I
see those lights."

"You will see me in your prayers every day, and I shall see you in
mine."

"But the cry of the body, Domini, of the eyes, of the hands, to see, to
touch--it's so fierce, it's so--it's so--"

"I know, I hear it too, always. But there is another voice, which will
be strong when the other has faded into eternal silence. In all bodily
things, even the most beautiful, there is something finite. We must
reach out our poor, feeble, trembling hands to the infinite. I think
everyone who is born does that through life, often without being
conscious of it. We shall do it consciously, you and I. We shall be able
to do it because of our dreadful suffering. We shall want, we shall have
to do it, you--where you are going, and I----"

"Where will you be?"

"I don't know, I don't know. I won