“Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?” she asked, looking away from Androvsky.
“Very,” said Father Roubier. “Although, of course, I am not in sympathy with their religion, I have often been moved by their adherence to its rules. There is something very grand in the human heart deliberately taking upon itself the yoke of discipline.”
“Islam—the very word means the surrender of the human will to the will of God,” said Count Anteoni. “That word and its meaning lie like the shadow of a commanding hand on the soul of every Arab, even of the absinthe-drinking renegades one sees here and there who have caught the vices of their conquerors. In the greatest scoundrel that the Prophet’s robe covers there is an abiding and acute sense of necessary surrender. The Arabs, at any rate, do not buzz against their Creator, like midges raging at the sun in whose beams they are dancing.”
“No,” assented the priest. “At least in that respect they are superior to many who call themselves Christians. Their pride is immense, but it never makes itself ridiculous.”
“You mean by trying to defy the Divine Will?” said Domini.
“Exactly, Mademoiselle.”
She thought of her dead father.
The servants stole round the table, handing various dishes noiselessly. One of them, at this moment, poured red wine into Androvsky’s glass. He uttered a low exclamation that sounded like the beginning of a protest hastily checked.
“You prefer white wine?” said Count Anteoni.
“No, thank you, Monsieur.”