His eyes seemed to rout out the secrets from every corner of her being, and to scatter them upon the ground as the sand was scattered.

“Dans le grand desert du Sahara,” Count Anteoni repeated, as if he loved the music of the words.  “Then there is a desert life for Madame?”

The Diviner dropped his fingers on to the pyramid, lightly pressing the sand down and outward.  He no longer looked at Domini.  The searching and the satire slipped away from his eyes and body.  He seemed to have forgotten the two watchers and to be concentrated upon the grains of sand.  Domini noticed that the tortured expression, which had come into his face when she met him in the street and he stared into the bag, had returned to it.  After pressing down the sand he spread the bag which had held it at Domini’s feet, and deftly transferred the sand to it, scattering the grains loosely over the sacking, in a sort of pattern.  Then, bending closely over them, he stared at them in silence for a long time.  His pock-marked face was set like stone.  His emaciated hands, stretched out, rested above the grains like carven things.  His body seemed entirely breathless in its absolute immobility.

The Count stood in the doorway, still as he was, surrounded by the motionless purple flowers.  Beyond, in their serried ranks, stood the motionless trees.  No incense was burning in the little brazier to-day.  This cloistered world seemed spell-bound.

A low murmur at last broke the silence.  It came from the Diviner.  He began to talk rapidly, but as if to himself, and as he talked he moved again, broke up with his fingers the patterns in the sand, formed fresh ones; spirals, circles, snake-like lines, series of mounting dots that reminded Domini of spray flung by a fountain, curves, squares and oblongs.  So swiftly was it done and undone that the sand seemed to be endowed with life, to be explaining itself in these patterns, to be presenting deliberate glimpses of hitherto hidden truths.  And always the voice went on, and the eyes were downcast, and the body, save for the moving hands and arms, was absolutely motionless.

Domini looked over the Diviner to Count Anteoni, who came gently forward and sat down, bending his head to listen to the voice.

“Is it Arabic?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Can you understand it?”

“Not yet.  Presently it will get slower, clearer.  He always begins like this.”

“Translate it for me.”

“Exactly as it is?”

“Exactly as it is.”

“Whatever it may be?”

“Whatever it may be.”

He glanced at the tortured face of the Diviner and looked grave.

“Remember you have said I am fearless,” she said.

He answered: 

“Whatever it is you shall know it.”

Then they were silent again.  Gradually the Diviner’s voice grew clearer, the pace of its words less rapid, but always it sounded mysterious and inward, less like the voice of a man than the distant voice of a secret.