Above the buildings, the men, the women, the still sheet of water and
the great plain of crops glistening with dew, stretched the exalted,
the miraculous peace of a cloudless sky. And no road seemed to lead
into this country of splendour and stillness. One could not believe the
unquiet sea was so near, with its gifts and its unending menace. Even
during the months of storms, the great clamour rising from the whitened
expanse of the Shallows dwelt high in the air in a vast murmur, now
feeble now stronger, that seemed to swing back and forth on the wind
above the earth without any one being able to tell whence it came. It
was like the solemn chant of a waterfall swelling and dying away above
the woods, the fields, above the roofs of houses and the heads of men,
above the secret peace of that hidden and flourishing settlement of
vanquished fanatics, fugitives, and outcasts.
Every afternoon Belarab, followed by an escort that stopped outside
the door, entered alone the house of his guest. He gave the salutation,
inquired after his health, conversed about insignificant things with an
inscrutable mien. But all the time the steadfast gaze of his thoughtful
eyes seemed to seek the truth within that white face. In the cool of
the evening, before the sun had set, they talked together, passing and
repassing between the rugged pillars of the grove near the gate of the
stockade.
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