She had a right to look closer into his
eyes if hers, full of faith, could lift the shadow from them.
She leaned back in the darkness of the tent. The old Arab had wandered
further on among the graves. His voice was faint in the sand, faint and
surely piteous, as if, even while he prayed, he felt that his prayers
were useless, that the fate of the dead was pronounced beyond recall.
Domini listened to him no more. She was praying for the living as she
had never prayed before, and her prayer was the prelude not to patience
but to action. It was as if her conversation with Count Anteoni had set
a torch to something in her soul, something that gave out a great flame,
a flame that could surely burn up the sorrow, the fear, the secret
torture in her husband's soul. All the strength of her character had
been roused by the sight of the peace she desired for the man she loved;
enthroned in the heart of this other man who was only her friend.
The voice of the old Arab died away in the distance, but before it died
away Domini had ceased from hearing it.
She heard only a voice within her, which said to her, "If you really
love be fearless.
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