urned his back to them again.

Domini sat quite still. Her lips moved, once more repeating the words of
_The Imitation_. Androvsky got up from his seat, stepped heavily out of
the carriage, and stood beside it. The coachman was busy lighting a
long cigar. Androvsky leaned forward towards Domini with his arms on the
carriage and looked at her with tearless eyes.

"Domini," at last he whispered. "Domini!"

Then she turned to him, bent towards him, put her hands on his shoulders
and looked into his face for a long time, as if she were trying to see
it now for all the years that were perhaps to come. Her eyes, too, were
tearless.

At last she leaned down and touched his forehead with her lips.

She said nothing. Her hands dropped from his shoulders, she turned away
and her lips moved once more.

Then Androvsky moved slowly in through the doorway of the monastery,
crossed the patch of sunlight, lifted his hand and rang the bell at the
second door.

"Drive back to Tunis, please."

"Madame!" said the coachman.

"Drive back to Tunis."

"Madame is not going to enter! But Monsieur--"

"Drive back to Tunis!"

Something in the voice that spoke to him startled the coachman. He
hesitated a moment, staring at Domini from his seat, then, with
a muttered curse, he turned his horses' heads and plied the whip
ferociously.

* * * * *

"Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is not
tired. When weary--it--is not--tired."

Domini's lips ceased to move. She could not speak any more. She could
not even pray without words.

Yet, in that moment, she did not feel alone.

CHAPTER XXXI

In the garden of Count Anteoni, which has now passed into other hands,
a little boy may often be seen playing. He is gay, as children are, and
sometimes he is naughty and, as if out of sheer wantonness, he destroys
the pyramids of sand erected by the Arab gardeners upon the narrow paths
between the hills, or tears off the petals of the geraniums and scatters
them to the breezes that whisper among the trees. But when Larbi's flute
calls to him he runs to hear. He sits at the feet of that persistent
lover, and watches the big fingers fluttering at the holes of the
reed, and his small face becomes earnest and dreamy, as if it looked
on far-off things, or watched the pale pageant of the mirages rising
mysteriously out of the sunlit spaces of the sands to fade again,
leaving no trace behind.

Only one other song he loves