“Just before dawn I reached my brother’s house outside of Tunis, not far from the Bardo. I knocked. My brother himself came down to know who was there. He, as I told you, was without religion, and had always hated my being a monk. I told him all, without reserve. I said, ‘Help me to go away. Let me go anywhere—alone.’ He gave me clothes, money. I shaved off my beard and moustache. I shaved my head, so that the tonsure was no longer visible. In the afternoon of that day I left Tunis. I was let loose into life. Domini—Domini, I won’t tell you where I wandered till I came to the desert, till I met you.
“I was let loose into life, but, with my freedom, the wish to live seemed to die in me. I was afraid of life. I was haunted by terrors. I had been a monk so long that I did not know how to live as other men. I did not live, I never lived—till I met you. And then—then I realised what life may be. And then, too, I realised fully what I was. I struggled, I fought myself. You know—now, if you look back, I think you know that I tried—sometimes, often—I tried to—to—I tried to——”
His voice broke.
“That last day in the garden I thought that I had conquered myself, and it was in that moment that I fell for ever. When I knew you loved me I could fight no more. Do you understand? You have seen me, you have lived with me, you have divined my misery. But don’t—don’t think, Domini, that it ever came from you. It was the consciousness of my lie to you, my lie to God, that—that—I can’t go on—I can’t tell you—I can’t tell you—you know.”
He was silent. Domini said nothing, did not move. He did not look at her, but her silence seemed to terrify him. He drew back from it sharply and turned to the desert. He stared across the vast spaces lit up by the moon. Still she did not move.
“I’ll go—I’ll go!” he muttered.
And he stepped forward. Then Domini spoke.
“Boris!” she said.
He stopped.
“What is it?” he murmured hoarsely.