Androvsky got out.
“Shall we walk a little way?” he said to Domini.
“Yes—yes.”
She got out too, and they walked slowly along the deserted road. Below them she saw the lights of ships gliding upon the lakes, the bright eyes of a lighthouse, the distant lamps of scattered villages along the shores, and, very far off, a yellow gleam that dominated the sea beyond the lakes and seemed to watch patiently all those who came and went, the pilgrims to and from Africa. That gleam shone in Carthage.
From the sea over the flats came to them a breeze that had a savour of freshness, of cool and delicate life.
They walked for some time without speaking, then Domini said:
“From the cemetery of El-Largani you looked out over this, didn’t you, Boris?”
“Yes, Domini,” he answered. “It was then that the voice spoke to me.”
“It will never speak again. God will not let it speak again.”
“How can you know that?”