ll as the purity which lay beyond the world. Her mind was
disturbed. She glanced from the red radiance on the glass to the dull
brown wood of the cross. Blood and agony had made it the mystical symbol
that it was--blood and agony.

She had something to think out. That burden was still upon her mind,
and now again she felt its weight, a weight that her interview with the
priest had not lifted. For she had not been able to be quite frank with
the priest. Something had held her back from absolute sincerity, and so
he had not spoken quite plainly all that was in his mind. His words had
been a little vague, yet she had understood the meaning that lay behind
them.

Really, he had warned her against Androvsky. There were two men of very
different types. One was unworldly as a child. The other knew the world.
Neither of them had any acquaintance with Androvsky's history, and both
had warned her. It was instinct then that had spoken in them, telling
them that he was a man to be shunned, perhaps feared. And her own
instinct? What had it said? What did it say?

For a long time she remained in the church. But she could not think
clearly, reason calmly, or even pray passionately. For a vagueness had
come into her mind like the vagueness of twilight that filled the space
beneath the starry roof, softening the crudeness of the ornaments, the
garish colours of the plaster saints. It seemed to her that her thoughts
and feelings lost their outlines, that she watched them fading like the
shrouded forms of Arabs fading in the tunnels of Mimosa. But as they
vanished surely they whispered, "That which is written is written."

The mosques of Islam echoed these words, and surely this little church
that bravely stood among them.

"That which is written is written."

Domini rose from her knees, hid the wooden cross once more in her
breast, and went out into the evening.

As she left the church door something occurred which struck the
vagueness from her. She came upon Androvsky and the priest. They were
standing together at the latter's gate, which he was in the act of
opening to an accompaniment of joyous barking from Bous-Bous. Both men
looked strongly expressive, as if both had been making an effort of some
kind. She stopped in the twilight to speak to them.

"Monsieur Androvsky has kindly been paying me a visit," said Father
Roubier.

"I am glad," Domini said. "We ought all to be friends here."

There was a perceptible pause. Then