initude? Is
there not a movement that is ceaseless till death comes to destroy--or
to translate?

That was what she was thinking in the silence of the garden. And
Androvsky? He sat beside her with his head bent, his hands hanging
between his knees, his eyes gazing before him at the ordered tangle
of the great trees. His lips were slightly parted, and on his
strongly-marked face there was an expression as of emotional peace, as
if the soul of the man were feeling deeply in calm. The restlessness,
the violence that had made his demeanour so embarrassing during
and after the _dejeuner_ had vanished. He was a different man. And
presently, noticing it, feeling his sensitive serenity, Domini seemed
to see the great Mother at work about this child of hers, Nature at her
tender task of pacification. The shared silence became to her like
a song of thanksgiving, in which all the green things of the garden
joined. And beyond them the desert lay listening, the Garden of Allah
attentive to the voices of man's garden. She could hardly believe that
but a few minutes before she had been full of irritation and bitterness,
not free even from a touch of pride that was almost petty. But when she
remembered that it was so she realised the abysses and the heights of
which the heart is mingled, and an intense desire came to her to be
always upon the heights of her own heart. For there only was the light
of happiness. Never could she know joy if she forswore nobility. Never
could she be at peace with the love within her--love of something that
was not self, of something that seemed vaguer than God, as if it had
entered into God and made him Love--unless she mounted upwards during
her little span of life. Again, as before in this land, in the first
sunset, on the tower, on the minaret of the mosque of Sidi-Zerzour,
Nature spoke to her intimate words of inspiration, laid upon her
the hands of healing, giving her powers she surely had not known or
conceived of till now. And the passion that is the chiefest grace of
goodness, making it the fire that purifies, as it is the little
sister of the poor that tends the suffering, the hungry, the groping
beggar-world, stirred within her, like the child not yet born, but whose
destiny is with the angels. And she longed to make some great offering
at the altar on whose lowest step she stood, and she was filled, for the
first time consciously, with woman's sacred desire for sacrifice.

A soft step on the s