Androvsky had spoken. The priest started, and went on with the “_Confirma, hoc, Deus_.” And from this point until the “_Per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen_,” which, since there was no Mass, closed the ceremony, he felt more master of himself and his emotions than at any time previously during this day. A sensation of finality, of the irrevocable, came to him. He said within himself, “This matter has passed out of my hands into the hands of God.” And in the midst of the violence of the storm a calm stole upon his spirit. “God knows best!” he said within himself. “God knows best!” Those words and the state of feeling that was linked with them were and had always been to him as mighty protecting arms that uplifted him above the beating waves of the sea of life. The Wedding March sounded when the priest bade good-bye to the husband and wife whom he had made one. He was able to do it tranquilly. He even pressed Androvsky’s hand. “Be good to her,” he said. “She is--she is a good woman.” To his surprise Androvsky suddenly wrung his hand almost passionately, and the priest saw that there were tears in his eyes. That night the priest prayed long and earnestly for all wanderers in the desert. When Domini and Androvsky came out from the church they saw vaguely a camel lying down before the door, bending its head and snarling fiercely. Upon its back was a palanquin of dark-red stuff, with a roof of stuff stretched upon strong, curved sticks, and curtains which could be drawn or undrawn at pleasure. The desert men crowded about it like eager phantoms in the wind, half seen in the driving mist of sand. Clinging to Androvsky’s arm, Domini struggled forward to the camel. As she did so, Smain, unfolding for an instant his burnous, pressed into her hands his mass of roses. She thanked him with a smile he scarcely saw and a word that was borne away upon the wind. At Larbi’s lips she saw the little flute and his thick fingers fluttering upon the holes. She knew that he was playing his love-song for her, but she could not hear it except in her heart. The perfume-seller sprinkled her gravely with essence, and for a moment she felt as if she were again in his dark bazaar, and seemed to catch among the voices of the storm the sound of men muttering prayers to Allah as in the mosque of Sidi-Zazan. Then she was in the palanquin with Androvsky close beside her. At this moment Batouch took hold of the curtains of the palanquin to draw them close, but she put out her hand and stopped him. She wanted to see the last of the church, of the tormented gardens she had learnt to love. He looked astonished, but yielded to her gesture, and told the camel-driver to make the animal rise to its feet. The driver took his stick and plied it, crying out, “A-ah! A-ah!” The camel turned its head towards him, showing its teeth, and snarling with a sort of dreary passion. “A-ah!” shouted the driver. “A-ah! A-ah!” The camel began to get up.