But Henriot did not care about the quail shooting.  He felt more inclined to be alone and think things out by himself.  He had come to his friends for comfort, and instead they had made him uneasy and excited.  His interest had suddenly doubled.  Though half afraid, he longed to know what these two were up to—­to follow the adventure to the bitter end.  He disregarded the warning of his host as well as the premonition in his own heart.  The sand had caught his feet.

There were moments when he laughed in utter disbelief, but these were optimistic moods that did not last.  He always returned to the feeling that truth lurked somewhere in the whole strange business, and that if he joined forces with them, as they seemed to wish, he would witness—­well, he hardly knew what—­but it enticed him as danger does the reckless man, or death the suicide.  The sand had caught his mind.

He decided to offer himself to all they wanted—­his pencil too.  He would see—­a shiver ran through him at the thought—­what they saw, and know some eddy of that vanished tide of power and splendour the ancient Egyptian priesthood knew, and that perhaps was even common experience in the far-off days of dim Atlantis.  The sand had caught his imagination too.  He was utterly sand-haunted.

VII

And so he took pains, though without making definite suggestion, to place himself in the way of this woman and her nephew—­only to find that his hints were disregarded.  They left him alone, if they did not actually avoid him.  Moreover, he rarely came across them now.  Only at night, or in the queer dusk hours, he caught glimpses of them moving hurriedly off from the hotel, and always desertwards.  And their disregard, well calculated, enflamed his desire to the point when he almost decided to propose himself.  Quite suddenly, then, the idea flashed through him—­how do they come, these odd revelations, when the mind lies receptive like a plate sensitised by anticipation?—­that they were waiting for a certain date, and, with the notion, came Mansfield’s remark about “the Night of Power,” believed in by the old Egyptian Calendar as a time when the supersensuous world moves close against the minds of men with all its troop of possibilities.  And the thought, once lodged in its corner of imagination, grew strong.  He looked it up.  Ten days from now, he found, Leyel-el-Sud would be upon him, with a moon, too, at the full.  And this strange hint of guidance he accepted.  In his present mood, as he admitted, smiling to himself, he could accept anything.  It was part of it, it belonged to the adventure.  But, even while he persuaded himself that it was play, the solemn reality, of what lay ahead increased amazingly, sketched darkly in his very soul.

These intervening days he spent as best he could—­impatiently, a prey to quite opposite emotions.  In the blazing sunshine he thought of it and laughed; but at night he lay often sleepless, calculating chances of escape.  He never did escape, however.  The Desert that watched little Helouan with great, unwinking eyes watched also every turn and twist he made.  Like this oasis, he basked in the sun of older time, and dreamed beneath forgotten moons.  The sand at last had crept into his inmost heart.  It sifted over him.