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primrose； but that deepened slowly into a live and ardent gold against
which a group of three palm trees detached themselves from the desert
like messengers sent forth by it to give a salutation to the moon。
They were jet black against the gold； distinct though very distant。
The night； and the vast plain from which they rose； lent them a
significance that was unearthly。 Their long； thin stems and drooping；
feathery leaves were living and pathetic as the night thoughts of a
woman who has suffered； but who turns； with a gesture of longing that
will not be denied； to the luminance that dwells at the heart of the
world。 And those black palms against the gold； that stillness of
darkness and light in immensity； banished Domini's faint sense of
horror。 The spectres faded away。 She fixed her eyes on the palms。
Now all the notes of the living things that do not sleep by night； but
make music by reedy pools； in underwood； among the blades of grass and
along the banks of streams； were audible to her again； filling her
mind with the mystery of existence。 The glassy note of the frogs was
like a falling of something small and pointed upon a sheet of crystal。
The whirs of the insects suggested a ceaselessly active mentality。 The
faint cries of the birds dropped down like jewels slipping from the
trees。 And suddenly she felt that she was as nothing in the vastness
and the complication of the night。 Even the passion that she knew lay；
like a dark and silent flood； within her soul； a flood that； once
released from its boundaries； had surely the power to rush
irresistibly forward to submerge old landmarks and change the face of
a worldeven that seemed to lose its depth for a moment； to be
shallow as the first ripple of a tide upon the sand。 And she forgot
that the first ripple has all the ocean behind it。
Red deepened and glowed in the gold behind the three palms； and the
upper rim of the round moon； red too as blood； crept about the desert。
Domini； leaning forward with one hand upon her horse's warm neck；
watched until the full circle was poised for a moment on the horizon；
holding the palms in its frame of fire。 She had never seen a moon look
so immense and so vivid as this moon that came up into the night like
a portent； fierce yet serene； moon of a barbaric world； such as might
have shone upon Herod when he heard the voice of the Baptist in his
dungeon； or upon the wife of Pilate when in a dream she was troubled。
It suggested to her the powerful watcher of tragic events fraught with
long chains of consequence that would last on through centuries； as it
turned its blood…red gaze upon the desert； upon the palms； upon her；
and； leaning upon her horse's neck； she toolike Pilate's wifefell
into a sort of strange and troubled dream for a moment； full of
strong； yet ghastly； light and of shapes that flitted across a
background of fire。
In it she saw the priest with a fanatical look of warning in his eyes；
Count Anteoni beneath the trees of his garden； the perfume…seller in
his dark bazaar； Irena with her long throat exposed and her thin arms
drooping； the sand…diviner spreading forth his hands； Androvsky
galloping upon a horse as if pursued。 This last vision returned again
and again。 As the moon rose a stream of light that seemed tragic fell
across the desert and was woven mysteriously into the light of her
waking dream。 The three palms looked larger。 She fancied that she saw
them growing； becoming monstrous as they stood in the very centre of
the path of the nocturnal glory； and suddenly she remembered her
thought when she sat with Androvsky in the garden； that feeling grew
in human hearts like palms rising in the desert。 But these palms were
tragic and aspired towards the blood…red moon。 Suddenly she was seized
with a fear of feeling； of the growth of an intense sensation within
her； and realised； with an almost feverish vividness； the impotence of
a soul caught in the grip of a great passion； swayed hither and
thither； led into strange paths； along the edges； perhaps into depths
of immeasurable abysses。 She had said to Androvsky that she would
rather be the centre of a world tragedy than die without having felt
to the uttermost even if it were sorrow。 Was that not the speech of a
mad woman； or at least of a woman who was so ignorant of the life of
feeling that her words were idle and ridiculous？ Again she felt
desperately that she did not know herself； and this lack of the most
essential of all knowledge reduced her for a moment to a bitterness of
despair that seemed worse than the bitterness of death。 The vastness
of the desert appalled her。 The red moon held within its circle all
the blood of the martyrs； of life； of ideals。 She shivered in the
saddle。 Her nature seemed to shrink and quiver； and a cry for
protection rose within her； the cry of the woman who cannot face life
alone； who must find a protector； and who must cling to a strong arm；
who needs man as the world needs God。
Then again it seemed to her that she saw Androvsky galloping upon a
horse as if pursued。
Moved by a desire to do something to combat this strange despair； born
of the moonrise and the night； she sat erect in her saddle； and
resolutely looked at the desert； striving to get away from herself in
a hard contemplation of the details that surrounded her； the outward
things that were coming each moment into clearer view。 She gazed
steadily towards the palms that sharply cut the moonlight。 As she did
so something black moved away from them； as if it had been part of
them and now detached itself with the intention of approaching her
along the track。 At first it was merely a moving blot； formless and
small； but as it drew nearer she saw that it was a horseman riding
slowly； perhaps stealthily； across the sand。 She glanced behind her；
and saw Batouch not far off； and the fires of the nomads。 Then she
turned again to watch the horseman。 He came steadily forward。
〃Madame！〃
It was the voice of Batouch。
〃Stay where you are！〃 she called out to him。
She heard the soft sound of the horse's feet and could see the
attitude of its rider。 He was leaning forward as if searching the
night。 She rode to meet him； and they came to each other in the path
of the light she had thought tragic。
〃You followed me？〃
〃I cannot see you go out alone into the desert at night；〃 Androvsky
replied。
〃But you have no right to follow me。〃
〃I cannot let harm come to you； Madame。〃
She was silent。 A moment before she had been longing for a protector。
One had come to her； the man whom she had been setting with those
legendary figures who have saddened and appalled the imagination of
men。 She looked at the dark figure of Androvsky leaning forward on the
horse whose feet were set on the path of the moon； and she did not
know whether she felt confidence in him or fear of him。 All that the
priest had said rose up in her mind； all that Count Anteoni had hinted
and that had been visible in the face of the sand…diviner。 This man
had followed her into the night as a guardian。 Did she need someone；
something； to guard her from him？ A faint horror was still upon her。
Perhaps he knew it and res