“The one to thy right hand has been marked out upon the Field of Content by feet bound in the sandals of custom and convention.  There is shade upon this path, for, behold, the scorching sun of passion may not penetrate the leaves of the trees of tranquillity; the storm breaks not, neither do the biting winds of fear, nor the drenching torrents of desire, encompass those who walk thereon.

“The river, the slow, full-blossomed river of patience, flows ever beside it, on its way to the Ocean of Life in which all waters must mingle in eternity.”

There fell a silence, broken by the swaying, throbbing music from the distant ball-room, causing the girl suddenly to stretch out her hands, upon which shone the ring, and the man to stretch out his, though he touched not hers at all.

“And to the left?”

“To the left, O woman whose eyes are like unto the pools of Lebanon at night, to thy left, lies the desert.  The desert, where the feet are blistered by the gritting sands of passion and the eyes are blinded in desire.  The vast plain where knowledge walks hand-in-hand with death; where the footprints of horror, fear, starvation, thirst, which are but the footprints of jealousy and love desired and fulfilled, mark the sands for one little second and then are gone; the desert, where there is no shade, no cool waters, no content, no peace until the wanderer lies still, with sightless eyes turned towards Eternity.”

“And if a woman’s feet trod upon it?”

“Then will she cut her feet upon the stones of pain; then will the scorpion of bitter experience sting her heel; then will she die with a smile upon her red mouth, for love will have come to her, maybe for a day, maybe for a second of time, but a love which will mingle her soul with the soul of her desert lover, or shatter her body, even as is broken the alabaster vase of sweet perfume.  Yet is it the love of the soul that endureth forever, yea, even if the body of the woman passeth unto another’s keeping.”

The girl pulled her veil closely about her head and sat quite still, her wonderful eyes hidden by the fringe of black lashes.

And yet did she not move when he sprang to his feet, intoxicated with the mystery of her, afire with that love which is the heritage of the desert.

Then he bent and caught her by the wrists and raised her to her feet.

“Take the path at thy right hand, woman; set not a foot upon the desert sand, lest perchance a bird of prey swoop down upon thee, thou white dove.”

He pulled her hands up, holding them cruelly, as in a steel vise, so that he had but to bend a finger’s breadth to kiss them.

“Thy feet hesitate, woman.  Why?  What searchest thou?”

“Knowledge.”

The man unconsciously laced his fingers in hers, crushing them until she went white to the lips.

“Knowledge is pain, woman.  What know’st thou of pain?  Great pain.  How could’st thou endure it?”