He was near her on the path coming towards her.  As she saw him she uttered a little cry and stood up.  An immense surprise came to her, followed in a moment by an immense joy—­the greatest joy, she thought, that she had ever experienced.  For she looked on a face in which she saw for the first time a pale dawning of peace.  There was sadness in it, there was awe, but there was a light of calm, such as sometimes settles upon the faces of men who have died quietly without agony or fear.  And she felt fully, as she saw it, the rapture of having refused cowardice and grasped the hand of bravery.  Directly afterwards there came to her a sensation of wonder that at this moment of their lives she and Androvsky should be capable of a feeling of joy, of peace.  When the wonder passed it was as if she had seen God and knew for ever the meaning of His divine compensations.

Androvsky came to the doorway of the fumoir without looking up, stood still there—­just where Count Anteoni had stood during his first interview with Domini—­and said: 

“Domini, I have been to the priest.  I have made my confession.”

“Yes,” she said.  “Yes, Boris!”

He came into the fumoir and sat down near her, but not close to her, on one of the divans.  Now the sad look in his face had deepened and the peace seemed to be fading.  She had thought of the dawn—­that pale light which is growing into day.  Now she thought of the twilight which is fading into night.  And the terrible knowledge struck her, “I am the troubler of his peace.  Without me only could he ever regain fully the peace which he has lost.”

“Domini,” he said, looking up at her, “you know the rest.  You meant it to be as it will be when we left Amara.”

“Was there any other way?  Was there any other possible life for us—­for you—­for me?”

“For you!” he said, and there was a sound almost of despair in his voice.  “But what is to be your life?  I have never protected you—­you have protected me.  I have never been strong for you—­you have been strong for me.  But to leave you—­all alone, Domini, must I do that?  Must I think of you out in the world alone?”

For a moment she was tempted to break her silence, to tell him the truth, that she would perhaps not be alone, that another life, sprung from his and hers, was coming to be with her, was coming to share the great loneliness that lay before her.  But she resisted the temptation and only said: 

“Do not think of me, Boris.”

“You tell me not to think of you!” he said with an almost fierce wonder.  “Do you—­do you wish me not to think of you?”

“What I wish—­that is so little, but—­no, Boris, I can’t say—­I don’t think I could ever truly say that I wish you to think no more of me.  After all, one has a heart, and I think if it’s worth anything it must be often a rebellious heart.  I know mine is rebellious.  But if you don’t think too much of me—­when you are there—­”