"You are the Trappist!" she whispered. "You are the monk from the monastery of El Largani who disappeared after twenty years?"
"Yes," he said, "I am he."
Standing there in the sands, while the world was wrapped in sleep, Androvsky told Domini the whole story of his life in the monastery, of his innocent happiness there, and of the events which woke up within him the mad longing to see life and the world, and to know the love of woman. He told her of his secret departure by night from the monastery, of his journey to the desert in search of complete and savage liberty. He told her how he had fought against his growing love for her, how he had tried to leave her; how, at the last moment in the garden by night, his passion for her had conquered him and driven him to her feet. He told her how the officer, Trevignac, had known him long ago in the monastery, and had recognised him when the Arab brought in the liqueur which he had made. He kept nothing from her.
"That last day in the garden," he said finally, "I thought 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. You have seen me, you have lived with me, you have divined my misery. But 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 tell you--I can't tell you--you know."
He looked into her face, then turned to go away into the desert.
"I'll go! I'll go!" he muttered.
Then Domini spoke.
"Boris!" she said.
He stopped.
"Boris, now at last you can pray."