"He held out his hand and took it indifferently. The boy gave it, and turning, went away through the wood. Then the stranger glanced at the envelope. Domini, I wish I could make you see what I saw then, the change that came. I can't. There are things the eyes must see. The tongue can't tell them. The ghastly whiteness went out of his face. A hot flood of scarlet rushed over it up to the roots of his hair. His hands and his whole body began to tremble violently. His eyes, which were fixed on the envelope, shone with an expression--it was like all the excitement in the world condensed into two sparks. He dropped his stick and sat down on the trunk of a tree, fell down almost.
"'Father!' he muttered, 'it's not been through the post--it's not been through the post!'
"I did not understand.
"'What do you mean?' I asked.
"'What----'
"The flush left his face. He turned deadly white again. He held out the letter.
"'Read it for me!' he said. 'I can't see--I can't see anything.'
"I took the letter. He covered his eyes with his hands. I opened it and read:
"'GRAND HOTEL, TUNIS.
"'I have found out where you are. I have come. Forgive me--if you can. I will marry you--or I will live with you. As you please; but I cannot live without you. I know women are not admitted to the monastery. Come out on the road that leads to Tunis. I am there.
At least come for a moment and speak to me. VERONIQUE.'
"Domini, I read this slowly; and it was as if I read my own fate. When I had finished he got up. He was still pale as ashes and trembling.
"'Which is the way to the road?' he said. 'Do you know?'
"'Yes.'
"'Take me there. Give me your arm, Father.'
"He took it, leaned on it heavily. We walked through the wood towards the highroad. I had almost to support him. The way seemed long. I felt tired, sick, as if I could scarcely move, as if I were bearing--as if I were bearing a cross that was too heavy for me. We came at last out of the shadow of the trees into the glare of the sun. A flat field divided us from the white road.
"'Is there--is there a carriage?' he whispered in my ear.
"I looked across the field and saw on the road a carriage waiting.
"'Yes,' I said.
"I stopped, and tried to take his arm from mine.
"'Go,' I said. 'Go on!'
"'I can't. Come with me, Father.'
"We went on in the blinding sun. I looked down on the dry earth as I walked. Presently I saw at my feet the white dust of the road. At the same time I heard a woman's cry. The stranger took his arm violently from mine.
"'Father,' he said. 'Good-bye--God bless you!'
"He was gone. I stood there. In a moment I heard a roll of wheels.
Then I looked up. I saw a man and a woman together, Domini. Their faces were like angels' faces--with happiness. The dust flew up in the sunshine. The wheels died away--I was alone.
"Presently--I think after a very long time--I turned and went back to the monastery. Domini, that night I left the monastery. I was as one mad. The wish to live had given place to the determination to live. I thought of nothing else. In the chapel that evening I heard nothing--I did not see the monks. I did not attempt to pray, for I knew that I was going. To go was an easy matter for me. I slept alone in the /hotellerie/, of which I had the key. When it was night I unlocked the door. I walked to the cemetery--between the Stations of the Cross.
Domini, I did not see them. In the cemetery was a ladder, as I told you.
"Just before dawn I reached my brother's house outside of Tunis, not far from the Bardo. I knocked. My brother himself came down to know who was there. He, as I told you, was without religion, and had always hated my being a monk. I told him all, without reserve. I said, 'Help me to go away. Let me go anywhere--alone.' He gave me clothes, money.
I shaved off my beard and moustache. I shaved my head, so that the tonsure was no longer visible. In the afternoon of that day I left Tunis. I was let loose into life. Domini--Domini, I won't tell you where I wandered till I came to the desert, till I met you.
"I was let loose into life, but, with my freedom, the wish to live seemed to die in me. I was afraid of life. I was haunted by terrors. I had been a monk so long that I did not know how to live as other men.
I did not live, I never lived--till I met you. And then--then I realised what life may be. And then, too, I realised fully what I was.
I struggled, I fought myself. You know--now, if you look back, I think you know that I tried--sometimes, often--I tried to--to--I tried to----"
His voice broke.
"That last day in the garden I thought that I had conquered myself, and it was in that moment that I fell for ever. When I knew you loved me I could fight no more. Do you understand? You have seen me, you have lived with me, you have divined my misery. But don't--don't think, Domini, that it ever came from you. It was the consciousness of my lie to you, my lie to God, that--that--I can't go on--I can't tell you--I can't tell you--you know."
He was silent. Domini said nothing, did not move. He did not look at her, but her silence seemed to terrify him. He drew back from it sharply and turned to the desert. He stared across the vast spaces lit up by the moon. Still she did not move.
"I'll go--I'll go!" he muttered.
And he stepped forward. Then Domini spoke.
"Boris!" she said.
He stopped.
"What is it?" he murmured hoarsely.
"Boris, now at last you--you can pray."
He looked at her as if awe-stricken.
"Pray!" he whispered. "You tell me I can pray--now!"
"Now at last."
She went into the tent and left him alone. He stood where he was for a moment. He knew that, in the tent, she was praying. He stood, trying to listen to her prayer. Then, with an uncertain hand, he felt in his breast. He drew out the wooden crucifix. He bent down his head, touched it with his lips, and fell upon his knees in the desert.
The music had ceased in the city. There was a great silence.
