camp beds.  Androvsky was alone when he saw this.  On reaching the halting-place he had walked a little way into the desert.  When he returned he found this change.  It told him something of what was passing in Domini’s mind, and it marked the transformation of their mutual life.  As he gazed at the two tents he felt stricken, yet he felt a curious sense of something that was like—­was it not like—­relief?  It was as if his body had received a frightful blow and on his soul a saint’s hand had been gently laid, as if something fell about him in ruins, and at the same time a building which he loved, and which for a moment he had thought tottering, stood firm before him founded upon rock.  He was a man capable of a passionate belief, despite his sin, and he had always had a passionate belief in Domini’s religion.  That morning, when she came out to him in the sand, a momentary doubt had assailed him.  He had known the thought, “Does she love me still—­does she love me more than she loves God, more than she loves his dictates manifested in the Catholic religion?” When she said that word “together” that had been his thought.  Now, as he looked at the two tents, a white light seemed to fall upon Domini’s character, and in this white light stood the ruin and the house that was founded upon a rock.  He was torn by conflicting sensations of despair and triumph.  She was what he had believed.  That made the triumph.  But since she was that where was his future with her?  The monk and the man who had fled from the monastery stood up within him to do battle.  The monk knew triumph, but the man was in torment.

Presently, as Androvsky looked at the two tents, the monk in him seemed to die a new death, the man who had left the monastery to know a new resurrection.  He was seized by a furious desire to go backward in time, to go backward but a few hours, to the moment when Domini did not know what now she knew.  He cursed himself for what he had done.  At last he had been able to pray.  Yes, but what was prayer now, what was prayer to the man who looked at the two tents and understood what they meant?  He moved away and began to walk up and down near to the two tents.  He did not know where Domini was.  At a little distance he saw the servants busy preparing the evening meal.  Smoke rose up before the cook’s tent, curling away stealthily among a group of palm trees, beneath which some Arab boys were huddled, staring with wide eyes at the unusual sight of travellers.  They came from a tiny village at a short distance off, half hidden among palm gardens.  The camels were feeding.  A mule was rolling voluptuously in the sand.  At a well a shepherd was watering his flocks, which crowded about him baaing expectantly.  The air seemed to breathe out a subtle aroma of peace and of liberty.  And this apparent presence of peace, this vision of the calm of others, human beings and animals, added to the torture of Androvsky.  As he walked to and fro he felt as if he were being devoured by his passions, as if he were losing the last vestiges of self-control.  Never in the monastery, never even in the night when he left it, had he been tormented like this.  For now he had a terrible companion whom, at that time, he had not known.  Memory walked with him before the tents, the memory of his body, recalling and calling for the past.