sulted Him. I have tried to forget God, to deny Him, to
put human love higher than love for Him. But always I am haunted by
the thought of God, and that thought makes me despair. Once, when I was
young, I gave myself to God solemnly. I have broken the vows I made. I
have--I have--"

The hardness went out of his voice. He broke down for a moment and was
silent.

"You gave yourself to God," she said. "How?"

He tried to meet her questioning eyes, but could not.

"I--I gave myself to God as a monk," he answered after a pause.

As he spoke Domini saw before her in the moonlight De Trevignac. He
cast a glance of horror at the tent, bent over her, made the sign of
the Cross, and vanished. In his place stood Father Roubier, his eyes
shining, his hand upraised, warning her against Androvsky. Then he, too,
vanished, and she seemed to see Count Anteoni dressed as an Arab and
muttering words of the Koran.

"Domini!"

"Domini, did you hear me? Domini! Domini!"

She felt his hands on her wrists.

"You are the Trappist!" she said quietly, "of whom the priest told me.
You are the monk from the Monastery of El-Largani who disappeared after
twenty years."

"Yes," he said, "I am he."

"What made you tell me? What made you tell me?"

There was agony now in her voice.

"You asked me to speak, but it was not that. Do you remember last night
when I said that God must bless you? You answered, 'He has blessed me.
He has given me you, your love, your truth.' It is that which makes me
speak. You have had my love, not my truth. Now take my truth. I've kept
it from you. Now I'll give it you. It's black, but I'll give it you.
Domini! Domini! Hate me to-night, but in your hatred believe that I
never loved you as I love you now."

"Give me your truth," she said.

BOOK V. THE REVELATION

CHAPTER XXVI

They remained standing at the tent door, with the growing moonlight
about them. The camp was hushed in sleep, but sounds of music still came
to them from the city below them, and fainter music from the tents of
the Ouled Nails on the sandhill to the south. After Domini had spoken
Androvsky moved a step towards her, looked at her, then moved back and
dropped his eyes. If he had gone on looking at her he knew he could not
have begun to speak.

"Domini," he said, "I'm not going to try and excuse myself for what
I have done. I'm not going to say to you what I daren't say to
God--'Forgive me.' How can such a thing be forgive