“No, no. I am glad—very glad. Have you finished?”
“Quite.”
“Let us take a rug and go out a little way in the sand—that way towards the cemetery. It is quiet there at night.”
“Yes. I will get a rug.” He went to fetch it, threw it over his arm, and they set out together. She had meant the Arab cemetery, but when they reached it they found two or three nomads wandering there.
“Let us go on,” she said.
They went on, and came to the French cemetery, which was surrounded by a rough hedge of brushwood, in which there were gaps here and there. Through one of these gaps they entered it, spread out the rug, and lay down on the sand. The night was still and silence brooded here. Faintly they saw the graves of the exiles who had died here and been given to the sand, where in summer vipers glided to and fro, and the pariah dogs wandered stealthily, seeking food to still the desires in their starving bodies. They were mostly very simple, but close to Domini and Androvsky was one of white marble, in the form of a broken column, hung with wreaths of everlasting flowers, and engraved with these words:
ICI REPOSE JEAN BAPTISTE FABRIANI
Priez pour lui.
When they lay down they both looked at this grave, as if moved by a simultaneous impulse, and read the words.
“Priez pour lui!” Domini said in a low voice.