The garden had become tragic to her for the
moment, full of a brooding melancholy. As she turned to leave it she
resolved to go to the priest. She had never yet entered his house. Just
then she wanted to speak to someone with whom she could be as a little
child, to whom she could liberate some part of her spirit simply,
certain of a simple, yet not foolish, reception of it by one to whom she
could look up. She desired to be not with the friend so much as with
the spiritual director. Something was alive within her, something of
distress, almost of apprehension, which needed the soothing hand, not of
human love, but of religion.
When she reached the priest's house Beni-Mora was astir with a pleasant
bustle of life. The military note pealed through its symphony. Spahis
were galloping along the white roads. Tirailleurs went by bearing
despatches. Zouaves stood under the palms, staring calmly at the
morning, their sunburned hands loosely clasped upon muskets whose butts
rested in the sand. But Domini scarcely noticed the brilliant gaiety of
the life about her. She was preoccupied, even sad. Yet, as she entered
the little garden of the priest, and tapped gently at his door, a
sensation of hope sprang up in her heart, born of the sustaining power
of her religion.
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