“He never allowed me to come into any sort of contact with the many strangers who visited the monastery.  Different monks have different duties.  Certain duties bring monks into connection with the travellers whom curiosity sends to El-Largani.  The monk whose business it is to look after the cemetery on the hill, where the dead Trappists are laid to rest, shows visitors round the little chapel, and may talk with them freely so long as they remain in the cemetery.  The monk in charge of the distillery also receives visitors and converses with them.  So does the monk in charge of the parlour at the great door of the monastery.  He sells the souvenirs of the Trappists, photographs of the church and buildings, statues of saints, bottles of perfumes made by the monks.  He takes the orders for the wines made at the monastery, and for—­for the—­what I made, Domini, when I was there.”

She thought of De Trevignac and the fragments of glass lying upon the ground in the tent at Mogar.

“Had De Trevignac——­” she said in a low, inward voice.

“He had seen me, spoken with me at the monastery.  When Ouardi brought in the liqueur he remembered who I was.”

She understood De Trevignac’s glance towards the tent where Androvsky lay sleeping, and a slight shiver ran through her.  Androvsky saw it and looked down.

“But the—­the—­”

He cleared his throat, turned, looked out across the white sand as if he longed to travel away into it and be lost for ever, then went on, speaking quickly: 

“But the monk who has most to do with travellers is the monk who is in charge of the hotellerie of the monastery.  He is the host to all visitors, to those who come over for the day and have dejeuner, and to any who remain for the night, or for a longer time.  For when I was at El-Largani it was permitted for people to stay in the hotellerie, on payment of a small weekly sum, for as long as they pleased.  The monk of the hotellerie is perpetually brought into contact with the outside world.  He talks with all sorts and conditions of men—­women, of course, are not admitted.  The other monks, many of them, probably envy him.  I never did.  I had no wish to see strangers.  When, by chance, I met them in the yard, the outbuildings, or the grounds of the monastery, I seldom even raised my eyes to look at them.  They were not, would never be, in my life.  Why should I look at them?  What were they to me?  Years went on—­quickly they passed—­not slowly.  I did not feel their monotony.  I never shrank from anything in the life.  My health was splendid.  I never knew what it was to be ill for a day.  My muscles were hard as iron.  The pallet on which I lay in my cubicle, the heavy robe I wore day and night, the scanty vegetables I ate, the bell that called me from my sleep in the darkness to go to the chapel, the fastings, the watchings, the perpetual sameness of all I saw, all I did, neither saddened nor fatigued me.  I never sighed for change.  Can you believe that, Domini?  It is true.  So long as Dom Andre Herceline lived and ruled my life I was calm, happy, as few people in the world, or none, can ever be.  But Dom Andre died, and then—­”