"
"But--that might have been for a different reason," Androvsky said in
a harsh voice; "priests have strange ideas. They often judge things
cruelly, very cruelly."
"Perhaps they do. Yes; I can imagine that Father Roubier of Beni-Mora
might, though he is a good man and leads a saintly life."
"Those are sometimes the most cruel. They do not understand."
"Perhaps not. It may be so. But this priest--he's not like that."
She thought of his genial, bearded face, his expression when he said,
"We are ruffians of the sun," including himself with the desert men, his
boisterous laugh.
"His fault might be the other way."
"Which way?"
"Too great a tolerance."
"Can a man be too tolerant towards his fellow-man?" said Androvsky.
There was a strange sound of emotion in his deep voice which moved her.
It seemed to her--why, she did not know--to steal out of the depth of
something their mutual love had created.
"The greatest of all tolerance is God's," she said. "I'm sure--quite
sure--of that."
Androvsky came in out of the shadow of the tent, took her in his arms
with passion, laid his lips on hers with passion, hot, burning force and
fire, and a hard tenderness that was hard because it was intense.
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