He turned suddenly and looked right into her eyes.
“But why am I saying all this?” he suddenly exclaimed. “What is written is written, and such women as you are guarded.”
“Guarded? By whom?”
“By their own souls.”
“I am not afraid,” she said quietly.
“Need you tell me that? Miss Enfilden, I scarcely know why I have said even as little as I have said. For I am, as you know, a fatalist. But certain people, very few, so awaken our regard that they make us forget our own convictions, and might even lead us to try to tamper with the designs of the Almighty. Whatever is to be for you, you will be able to endure. That I know. Why should I, or anyone, seek to know more for you? But still there are moments in which the bravest want a human hand to help them, a human voice to comfort them. In the desert, wherever I may be—and I shall tell you—I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
She gave him her hand. He held it almost as a father or a guardian might have held it.
“And this garden is yours day and night—Smain knows.”
“Thank you,” she said again.