He crossed the church, and issuing from the low-arched door opposite the pulpit, once more stepped out into the garden.

Here, at least, was reality.

The warm, still air descended upon him like a cloak, grateful, comforting, dispelling the chill that lurked in the damp mould of plaster and crumbling adobe.
But now he found his way across the garden on the other side of the fountain, where, ranged against the eastern wall, were nine graves.
Here Angele was buried, in the smallest grave of them all, marked by the little headstone, with its two dates, only sixteen years apart.

To this spot, at last, he had returned, after the years spent in the desert, the wilderness--after all the wanderings of the Long Trail.

Here, if ever, he must have a sense of her nearness.