And now--now she was going to speak to him--to tell
him--what was she going to tell him? How much could she, dared she, tell
him? She prayed silently to be given strength.
In the clear sky the young moon hung. Beneath it, to the left, was one
star like an attendant, the star of Venus. The faint light of the
moon fell upon the water of the pool. Unceasingly the frog uttered its
nocturne.
Domini stood for a moment looking at the water listening. Then she
glanced up at the moon and the solitary star. Androvsky stood by her.
"Shall we--let us sit on the wall, where the gap is," she said.
"The water is beautiful, beautiful with that light on it, and the
palms--palms are always beautiful, especially at night. I shall never
love any other trees as I love palm trees."
"Nor I," he answered.
They sat down on the wall. At first they did not speak any more. The
stillness of the water, the stillness of reeds and palms, was against
speech. And the little flute-like note that came to them again and again
at regular intervals was like a magical measuring of the silence of the
night in the desert. At last Domini said, in a low voice:
"I heard that note on the night when I rode out of Beni-Mora to see the
moon rise in the desert.
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