“Dorothea, from the other cave, across the oasis. I have nursed you, brother. Eat now!”
“It is sin.”
“When you are well, do as you will. Now you must get strength. Eat—eat!”
She was now the stronger willed, and he obeyed. He looked at her wonderingly, then closed his eyes and slept.
He waked and slept, waked and slept. He had lain close to death’s door and lain there long, and now he recovered tardily. “Why will you not go away?” he asked.
“If I did, you would die. I will go when you can stand and walk and get food for yourself.”
“It is not much to die.... I bid you, then, go get some brother—”
“The desert is hot iron to cross. He might not come, nor know how to nurse you if he came.” Dorothea, weaving baskets in the light, began to sing a hymn of the Church. She sang low and sweet, verse after verse, hymn and psalm. The tears came out of Dorotheus’s eyes, he made a movement with his hands, and gave up commanding.
Day by day now he strengthened. Usually he lay silent, and she moved or sat in silence. In the cool of the day she sat without the cave, and at night she lay without it. As he strengthened, less and less did she come about him. But she sang at her work, rich chants of the Church.
Now he could lift himself, sit propped against the cave wall, put his hand upon Arla beside him, watch through the entrance Even I and Welcome, and the changing desert hues. Suddenly, one afternoon he began to speak.