Close by, divided from her only by a little masonry, a few feet of sand,
a few palm trees, Androvsky was with the priest.
Still kneeling, with her face between her hands, Domini began to think
and pray. The memory of her petition to Notre Dame de la Garde came back
to her. Before she knew Africa she had prayed for men wandering, and
perhaps unhappy, there, for men whom she would probably never see again,
would never know. And now that she was growing familiar with this land,
divined something of its wonders and its dangers, she prayed for a man
in it whom she did not know, who was very near to her making a sacrifice
of his prejudices, perhaps of his fears, at her desire. She prayed for
Androvsky without words, making of her feelings of gratitude to him a
prayer, and presently, in the darkness framed by her hands, she seemed
to see Liberty once more, as in the shadows of the dancing-house,
standing beside a man who prayed far out in the glory of the desert. The
storm, spoken of by the Diviner, did not always rage. It was stilled to
hear his prayer. And the darkness had fled, and the light drew near to
listen.
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