She fell silent, and he spoke slowly.

“I see the desert, many-hued, like an opal with the setting of the sun.  I see the flickering of camp-fires and the palm-fringe of an oasis.  I see the tapering minarets of a mosque, and the long booths of the bazaars.  I smell the scent of the perfume-seller’s stall, the heavy sweetness of attar of roses....  I hear the tinkle of camel bells....  There comes a change....  I see a mountain-pass and a mule-train crawling through the dust, I see the paths that go around the world.  Which of our pictures do you prefer?”

She gave a pained, low cry, and buried her face passionately on his shoulder.  “Oh, you know, you know!” she cried, in a piteous voice.  “And you love me, yet you tempt me to break my parole.  If I could do it and be freed of the responsibility!  If a miracle could work itself!”

“Cara,” he whispered, resolutely steadying himself, “don’t forget the gospel according to Jonesy.  You can’t dam up the tributaries of the heart.  Some day you must come to me.  That much is immutably written.  For God’s sake come now while the road is still clear.  Otherwise we shall grope our ways to each other, even if it be through tragedy—­through hell itself.”

For a moment she gazed at him with wide eyes.

“I know it—­” she whispered in a frightened voice.  “I know it—­and yet I must go ahead.”

He rose and lifted her; then as she stood clinging to him he said:  “I ask your forgiveness if I’ve made it harder—­and one boon.  Slip away with me and give me an hour with you.”

“They will find me.  Pagratide and Von Ritz will find me,” she objected helplessly.  “They won’t let us be alone for long.”

“Listen,” he replied.  “It is not too cold and the moon is brilliant.  It is the last real moon for me.  Come with me in my car for a while.”

“You must not make love to me,” she stipulated.  “I am going to try to get my face properly composed—­and if you make love to me, I can’t.  Besides, when you make love I’m rather afraid of you.  So you mustn’t.”

Then, with a wild spasmodic gesture, she caught the edges of his cashmere cloak and gripped them tightly in both hands as she looked up into his eyes and impetuously contradicted herself.

“Yes, please do,” she appealed.

He laughed.  “Destiny says I must make love to you,” he asserted, “and who am I to disobey Destiny?”

Outside, she insisted upon waiting by the bridge while he went for his car.  So he turned and started alone to the point on the driveway just around the angle of the house, where McGuire, pursuant to previous orders, was to be waiting with the machine.  It had been only an hour since Benton had slipped away from the dancers and consulted with McGuire in the shadow of the wall, instructing him explicitly in his duties.  McGuire was to wait with the machine ready upon call.  The lamps were not to be lighted.  When Benton came, the chauffeur was to run the car