Isidore of Seville that the ring of marriage is left on
the fourth finger of the bride's hand because that finger contains a
vein directly connected with the heart.

"_Amen_."

Androvsky had spoken. The priest started, and went on with the
"_Confirma, hoc, Deus_." And from this point until the "_Per Christum
Dominum nostrum, Amen_," which, since there was no Mass, closed the
ceremony, he felt more master of himself and his emotions than at
any time previously during this day. A sensation of finality, of the
irrevocable, came to him. He said within himself, "This matter has
passed out of my hands into the hands of God." And in the midst of the
violence of the storm a calm stole upon his spirit. "God knows best!" he
said within himself. "God knows best!"

Those words and the state of feeling that was linked with them were and
had always been to him as mighty protecting arms that uplifted him above
the beating waves of the sea of life. The Wedding March sounded when the
priest bade good-bye to the husband and wife whom he had made one. He
was able to do it tranquilly. He even pressed Androvsky's hand.

"Be good to her," he said. "She is--she is a good woman."

To his surprise Androvsky suddenly wrung his hand almost passionately,
and the priest saw that there were tears in his eyes.

That night the priest prayed long and earnestly for all wanderers in the
desert.

When Domini and Androvsky came out from the church they saw vaguely
a camel lying down before the door, bending its head and snarling
fiercely. Upon its back was a palanquin of dark-red stuff, with a roof
of stuff stretched upon strong, curved sticks, and curtains which could
be drawn or undrawn at pleasure. The desert men crowded about it like
eager phantoms in the wind, half seen in the driving mist of sand.
Clinging to Androvsky's arm, Domini struggled forward to the camel. As
she did so, Smain, unfolding for an instant his burnous, pressed into
her hands his mass of roses. She thanked him with a smile he scarcely
saw and a word that was borne away upon the wind. At Larbi's lips she
saw the little flute and his thick fingers fluttering upon the holes.
She knew that he was playing his love-song for her, but she could not
hear it except in her heart. The perfume-seller sprinkled her gravely
with essence, and for a moment she felt as if she were again in his dark
bazaar, and seemed to catch among the voices of the storm the sound of
men muttering prayers