Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 12, 2025
She knew, too, that he was no longer a practising Catholic, and that, for some reason, he dreaded any intimacy with priests. He never spoke against them. He had scarcely ever spoken of them to her. But she remembered his words in the garden, "I do not care for priests." She remembered, too, his action in the tunnel on the day of his arrival in Beni-Mora.
The Arabs declare that on moonlight nights they have heard him joining in the chorus of the Kabyle dogs." "You speak almost as if you believed it." "Well, I believe more here than I believe anywhere else. That is partly why I come here." "I can understand that I mean believing much here." "What! Already you feel the spell of Beni-Mora, the desert spell!
And now he was to perform in it an act against which his whole nature revolted; he was to join indissolubly the lives of these two strangers who had come to Beni-Mora Domini Enfilden and Boris Androvsky. He was to put on the surplice and white stole, to say the solemn and irreparable "Ego Jungo," to sprinkle the ring with holy water and bless it.
The moonlight was growing brighter, as if invisible hands began to fan the white flame of passion which lit up Beni-Mora. A patrol of Tirailleurs Indigenes passed by going up the street, in yellow and blue uniforms, turbans and white gaiters, their rifles over their broad shoulders. The faint tramp of their marching feet was just audible on the sandy road.
"I am looking to see if it is nearly the hour of prayer," he said. "When I am in Beni-Mora I usually come here then." "You turn to the desert as the faithful turn towards Mecca?" "Yes. I like to see men praying in the desert." He spoke indifferently, but Domini felt suddenly sure that within him there were depths of imagination, of tenderness, even perhaps of mysticism.
He was facing her, and he held his hands against his heart with hers in them, then pressed her hands against her heart, then drew them back again to his. "Then let us realise it. Let us forget our prison. Let us forget everything, everything that we ever knew before Beni-Mora, Domini. It's dead, absolutely dead, unless we make it live by thinking. And that's mad, crazy.
"I would rather you did you and your garden." "And some day I should like you to know a little more of me." "Thank you. When will you come back?" "I can't tell. But you are not leaving?" "Not yet." The idea of leaving Beni-Mora troubled her heart strangely. "No, I am too happy here." "Are you really happy?" "At any rate I am happier than I have ever been before." "You are on the verge."
"Yes, Smain," she answered, "it is better here. But I can not stay here long." "You are going away?" "Yes, I am going away." She saw more quiet questions fluttering on his lips, and added: "And now I want to walk in the garden alone." He waved his hand towards the trees. "It is all for Madame. Monsieur the Count has always said so. But Monsieur?" "He is in Beni-Mora.
Yet at moments she remembered her inward cry in Count Anteoni's garden, "Oh, what is going to happen to me here?" And then she was dimly conscious that Beni-Mora was the home of many things besides peace. It held warring influences. At one moment it lulled her and she was like an infant rocked in a cradle.
And she wondered for an instant whether he had come to Beni-Mora, as she had come, vaguely seeking for a happiness scarcely embodied in a definite thought. "There is a gentleman coming, Madame." It was the soft voice of Smain from the gate. In a moment Androvsky stood before it. Domini saw him framed in the white wood, with a brilliant blue behind him and a narrow glimpse of the watercourse.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking