“Yes.  The monks would have kept the matter a secret, but a servant of the hotellerie—­who had taken no vow of eternal silence—­spoke, and—­well, I know it here in the ‘belly of the desert.’”

“Horrible!”

She said the word again, and as if she felt its meaning more acutely each time she spoke it.

“After twenty years to go!” she added after a moment.  “And was there no reason, no—­no excuse—­no, I don’t mean excuse!  But had nothing exceptional happened?”

“What exceptional thing can happen in a Trappist monastery?” said the priest.  “One day is exactly like another there, and one year exactly like another.”

“Was it long ago?”

“No, not very long.  Only some months.  Oh, perhaps it may be a year by now, but not more.  Poor fellow!  I suppose he was a man who didn’t know himself, Madame, and the devil tempted him.”

“But after twenty years!” said Domini.

The thing seemed to her almost incredible.

“That man must be in hell now,” she added.  “In the hell a man can make for himself by his own act.  Oh, here is my husband.”

Androvsky stood in the tent door, looking in upon them with startled, scrutinising eyes.  He had come over the deep sand without noise.  Neither Domini nor the priest had heard a footstep.  The priest got up from his chair and bowed genially.

“Good-evening, Monsieur,” he said, not waiting for any introduction.  “I am the Aumonier of Amara, and——­”

He paused in the full flow of his talk.  Androvsky’s eyes had wandered from his face to the table, upon which stood the coffee, the liqueur, and the other things brought by Ouardi.  It was evident even to the self-centred priest that his host was not listening to him.  There was a moment’s awkward pause.  Then Domini said: 

“Boris, Monsieur l’Aumonier!”

She did not speak loudly, but with an intention that recalled the mind of her husband.  He stepped slowly into the tent and held out his hand in silence to the priest.  As he did so the lamplight fell full upon him.

“Boris, are you ill?” Domini exclaimed.

The priest had taken Androvsky’s hand, but with a doubtful air.  His cheerful and confident manner had died away, and his eyes, fixed upon his host, shone with an astonishment which was mingled with a sort of boyish glumness.  It was evident that he felt that his presence was unwelcome.

“I have a headache,” Androvsky said.  “I—­that is why I returned.”

He dropped the priest’s hand.  He was again looking towards the table.

“The sun was unusually fierce to-day,” Domini said.  “Do you think—­”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted.  “That’s it.  I must have had a touch of the sun.”

He put his hand to his head.

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, speaking to the priest but not looking at him.  “I am really feeling unwell.  Another day—­”