There came again to her the memory of those fierce, compelling eyes, the dogged mastery with which he had fought her resolution, the sudden magic softening of the harsh face when he smiled.  There came again the passionate thrilling of his voice; again her hands tingled in that close grip; again she thought she felt the beating of the savage heart.

She raised her arms above her head with the gesture of one who wards off something immense, but they fell almost immediately.  She was so tired—­so tired.  She had fought so hard and so long.  Oh, why was there no peace for her?  What had she done to be thus tortured?  Why had love come to her at all?  In all her barren life she had never asked for love.

And now that it had come it was only to be ruthlessly dashed against the stones.  What had she to do with love—­love, moreover, for a man who could offer her but the fiery passion of a savage, a man from whom her every instinct shrank, who mocked at holy things and overthrew all barriers of convention with a cynicism that silenced all protest.  What—­ah, what indeed!—­had she to do with love?

She had lived a pure life.  She had put out the fires of youth long ago, with no hesitating hand.  She had dwelt in the desert, and made of it her home.  Was it her fault that those fires had been kindled afresh?  Was she to blame because the desert had suddenly blossomed?  Could she be held responsible for these things, she who had walked in blindness till the transforming miracle had touched her also and opened her eyes?

She shivered a little.  Oh, for a helping hand!  Oh, for a deliverer from this maze of misery!

She saw again the quiet garden lying sleeping before her in the moonlight, and felt as if God must be very far away.  She was very terribly alone that night.

The impulse came to her to pass out into the dewy stillness, and she obeyed it, scarcely knowing what she did.  Over the silver grass, ghost-like, she moved.  It was as if a voice had called her.  On to the lilac trees with their burden of fragrant blossoms, where the thrush had raised his song of rapture, where she had faced that first fiery ordeal of love.

She reached the bench where she had sat that afternoon.  There was not a leaf that stirred.  The nightingale’s song sounded away in the distance.  The midnight peace lay like a shroud upon all things.  But suddenly fear stabbed her, piercing every nerve to quivering activity.  She knew—­how, she could not have said—­that she was no longer alone.

She stood quite still, but the beating of her heart rose quick and insistent in her ears, like the beat of a drum.  Swift came the conviction that it was no inner impulse that had brought her hither.  She had obeyed a voice that called.

For many seconds she stood motionless, not breathing, not daring to turn her head.  Then, as her strength partially returned, she took two steps forward to the seat under the lilac tree, and, her hand upon the back of it, she spoke.