That night, as Domini lay in the lonely room in the hotel, with the French windows open to the verandah, she heard the church clock chime the hour and the distant sound of the African hautboy in the street of the dancers, she heard again the two voices.  The hautboy was barbarous and provocative, but she thought that it was no more shrill with a persistent triumph.  Presently the church bell chimed again.

Was it the bell of the church of Beni-Mora, or the bell of the chapel of El-Largani?  Or was it not rather the voice of the great religion to which she belonged, to which Androvsky was returning?

When it ceased she whispered to herself, “Factus obediens usque ad mortem Crucis.”  And with these words upon her lips towards dawn she fell asleep.  They had dined upstairs in the little room that had formerly been Domini’s salon, and had not seen Father Roubier, who always came to the hotel to take his evening meal.  In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Androvsky said: 

“Domini, I will go.  I will go now.”

He got up and stood by her, looking down at her.  In his face there was a sort of sternness, a set expression.

“To Father Roubier, Boris?” she said.

“Yes.  Before I go won’t you—­won’t you give me your hand?”

She understood all the agony of spirit he was enduring, all the shame against which he was fighting.  She longed to spring up, to take him in her arms, to comfort him as only the woman he loves and who loves him can comfort a man, without words, by the pressure of her arms, the pressure of her lips, the beating of her heart against his heart.  She longed to do this so ardently that she moved restlessly, looking up at him with a light in her eyes that he had never seen in them before, not even when they watched the fire dying down at Arba.  But she did not lift her hand to his.

“Boris,” she said, “go.  God will be with you.”

After a moment she added: 

“And all my heart.”

He stood, as if waiting, a long time.  She had ceased from moving and had withdrawn her eyes from his.  In his soul a voice was saying, “If she does not touch you now she will never touch you again.”  And he waited.  He could not help waiting.

“Boris,” she whispered, “good-bye.”

“Good-bye?” he said.

“Come to me—­afterwards.  Come to me in the garden.  I shall be there where we—­I shall be there waiting for you.”

He went out without another word.

When he was gone she went on to the verandah quickly and looked over the parapet.  She saw him come out from beneath the arcade and walk slowly across the road to the little gate of the enclosure before the house of the priest.  As he lifted his hands to open the gate there was the sound of a bark, and she saw Bous-Bous run out with a manner of stern inquiry, which quickly changed to joyful welcome as he recognised an old acquaintance.  Androvsky bent down, took