Then he lay down to sleep, and in dream was aware of something
gigantic that bent over him, exhaling fiery breath.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Gently, caressingly, the dusk, fragrant with the scent of blossoms,
descended. Sanine sat at a table near the window, striving to read in
the waning light a favourite tale of his. It described the lonely,
tragic death of an old bishop, who, clad in his sacerdotal vestments
and holding a jewelled cross, expired amid the odour of incense.
In the room the temperature was as cool as that outside, for the soft
evening breeze played round Sanine's powerful frame, filling his lungs,
and lightly caressing his hair. Absorbed in his book, he read on, while
his lips moved from time to time, and he seemed like a big boy
devouring some story of adventures among Indians. Yet, the more he
read, the sadder became his thoughts. How much there was in this world
that was senseless and absurd! How dense and uncivilized men were, and
how far ahead of them in ideas he was!
The door opened and some one entered. Sanine looked up.
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