"Hope for them, remembering my many years of wandering."
"Yes, yes."
"Good-bye."
"Will you come again?"
"You are here for long?"
"Some days, I think."
"Whenever you ask me I will come."
"I want you and my husband to meet again. I want that very much." She
spoke with a pressure of eagerness.
"Send for me and I will come at any hour."
"I will send--soon."
When he was gone, Domini sat in the shadow of the tent. From where she
was she could see the Arab cemetery at a little distance, a quantity of
stones half drowned in the sand. An old Arab was wandering there alone,
praying for the dead in a loud, persistent voice. Sometimes he paused
by a grave, bowed himself in prayer, then rose and walked on again. His
voice was never silent. The sound of it was plaintive and monotonous.
Domini listened to it, and thought of homeless men, of those who had
lived and died without ever coming to that open door through which Count
Anteoni had entered. His words and the changed look in his face had made
a deep impression upon her. She realised that in the garden, when they
were together, his eyes, even when they twinkled with the slightly
ironical humour peculiar to him, had always held a shadow.
Pages:
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753