All at once a woman walked in front of the burning pile.  She was tall, and silken folds clothed the perfect lines of her body and fell straight to the ground.  She walked royally, and when she moved her gestures were like the rhythm of majestic music.  The firelight shone on her hair, which was bound with a narrow golden band.  Her hair was like a cloud of spun sunshine, and it seemed brighter than the flames.  She was walking with downcast eyes, but presently she looked up.  Her face was calm, and faultless as skilfully-hewn marble, and it seemed to be made of some substance different from the clay which goes to the making of men and women.  It was not an angel’s face; it was not a divine face; neither was it a wicked face, nor had it anything cruel, nor anything of the siren or the witch.  Love and pleasure seemed to have moulded the flower-like lips; but an infinite carelessness shone in the still blue eyes.  They seemed like two seas that had never known what winds and tempests mean, but which bask for ever under unruffled skies lulled by a slumber-scented breeze.

She looked up at the fire and smiled, and at that smile one thought the heavens must open and the stars break into song, so marvellous was its loveliness, so infinitely radiant the glory of it.  She was a woman, and yet more than a woman, a creature of the earth, yet fashioned of pearls and dew and the petals of flowers:  delicate as a gossamer, and yet radiant with the flush of life, soft as the twilight, and glowing with the blood of the ruby; and, above all things, serene, calm, aloof, and unruffled like the silver moon.  When the dying men saw her smile they raised their eyes towards her, and one could see that there shone in them a strange and wonderful happiness.  And when they had looked they fell back and died.

Then a cloud of smoke blinded me.  When it rose the full moon was still shining in a sky even bluer and softer than it had yet been.  The fire was further off, but it had spread.  The whole village was on fire; but the village had grown; it seemed endless, and covered several hills.  Right in front of me was a grove of cypresses, dark against the intense glow of the flames, which leapt all round in the distance:  a huge circle of light, a chain of fiery tongues and dancing lightnings.

We were on the top of a hill, and we looked down into a place where tall buildings and temples stood, where the fire had not penetrated.  This place was crowded with men, women and children.  It was the same shifting crowd of shadows:  some shouting, some gesticulating, some looking on indifferent.  And straight in front of me was a short, dark, and rather fat man with a low forehead, deep-set eyes, and a heavy jaw.  He was crowned with a golden wreath, and he was twanging a kind of harp.  In the distance suddenly the cypress trees became alive with huge flaring torches, which lit the garden like Bengal lights.  The man threw down his harp and clapped his hands in ecstasy at the bright fireworks.  Again a cloud of smoke obscured everything.