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She was going away to the hotel door, but she stopped. "My name is Domini Enfilden," she said in English. The man stood in the road looking at her. She waited. She expected him to tell her his name. There was a silence. At last he said hesitatingly, in English with a very slight foreign accent: "My name is Boris Boris Androvsky." "Batouch told me you were English," she said.
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.
A stronger breath of the cool wind came over the flats, and all the palm trees rustled. Through the garden there was a delicate stir of life. "My children are murmuring farewell," said the Count. "I hear them. It is time! Good-bye, Miss Enfilden my friend, if I may call you so. May Allah have you in his keeping, and when your summons comes, obey it alone."
On an autumn evening, Domini Enfilden leaned on the parapet of a verandah of the Hotel du Désert at Beni-Mora, in Southern Algeria, gazing towards the great Sahara, which was lit up by the glory of sunset. The bell of the Catholic Church chimed. She heard the throbbing of native drums in the village near by.
"I am afraid, Father Roubier, you will not be able to do full justice to my chef, Hamdane, although he has thought of you and done his best for you. But I hope Miss Enfilden and " "I keep Friday," Domini interrupted quietly. "Yes? Poor Hamdane!" He looked in grave despair, but she knew that he was really pleased that she kept the fast day.
He held out his hand, but Androvsky bowed hastily and awkwardly and did not seem to see it. Domini glanced at Count Anteoni, and surprised a piercing expression in his bright eyes. It died away at once, and he said: "Let us go to the salle-a-manger. Dejeuner will be ready, Miss Enfilden."
She remembered her vision of the pale procession. Would she walk in it at last? "You are as fatalistic as an Arab," she said. "And you?" "I!" she answered simply. "I believe that I am in the hands of God, and I know that perfect love can never harm me." After a moment he said, gently: "Miss Enfilden, I want to ask something of you." "Yes?" "Will you make a sacrifice? To-morrow I start at dawn.
"Monsieur Androvsky has gone without saying good-bye," he said. Again Domini felt ashamed for Androvsky. "I don't think he likes my pensioners," the Count added, in amused voice, "or me." "I am sure " Domini began. But he stopped her. "Miss Enfilden, in a world of lies I look to you for truth." His manner chafed her, but his voice had a ring of earnestness. She said nothing.
There was to be no mass, and no music except the Wedding March, which the harmonium player, a Marseillais employed in the date-packing trade, insisted on performing to do honour to Mademoiselle Enfilden, who had taken such an interest in the music of the church.
"Ah, Father," said Count Anteoni, going to meet him, while Domini got up from her chair, "it is good of you to come out in the sun to eat fish with such a bad parishioner as I am. Your little companion is welcome." He patted Bous-Bous, who took little notice of him. "You know Miss Enfilden, I think?" continued the Count. "Father Roubier and I meet every day," said Domini, smiling.
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