But now she loved him perfectly, because she
loved as God intended her to love. She loved him as God's envoy sent to
him.
She was still weeping, but she began to feel calm, as if the stillness
of this hour before the dawn entered into her soul. She thought of
herself now only as a vessel into which God was pouring His purpose and
His love.
Just as dawn was breaking, as the first streak of light stole into the
east and threw a frail spear of gold upon the sands, she was conscious
again of a thrill of life within her, of the movement of her unborn
child. Then she lifted her head from her hand, looking towards the east,
and whispered:
"Give me strength for one more thing--give me strength to be silent!"
She waited as if for an answer. Then she rose from her knees, bathed her
face and went out to the tent door to Androvsky.
"Boris!" she said.
He rose from his knees and looked at her, holding the little wooden
crucifix in his hand.
"Domini?" he said in an uncertain voice.
"Put it back into your breast. Keep it for ever, Boris."
As if mechanically, and not removing his eyes from her, he put the
crucifix into his breast.
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