The voice of the boy died away.  She turned in the direction of the Mihrab to offer up her prayer to the Unknown God, as the pious Mussulman turns in the direction of the Sacred City when he puts up his prayer to Allah.

Her eyes fell upon the Bedouin.

As she looked at him, this man of the desert come up into the City, with the fires of the dunes in his veins, the vast spaces mirrored in his eyes, the passion for wandering in his soul, she felt that in a mysterious and remote way she was akin to him, despite all her culture, her subtle mentality, the difference of her life from his.  For she had her wildness of nature, dominant and unceasing, as he had his.  He was forever traveling in body and she in mind.  He sought fresh, and ever fresh, camping-places, and so did she.  The black ashes of burnt-out fires marked his progress and hers.  She looked at him as she uttered her prayer to the Unknown God.

And she prayed for a master, that she might meet a man who would be able to dominate her, to hold her fast in the grip of his nature.  At this moment Dion dominated her in an ugly way, and she knew it too well.  But she needed some one whom she would willingly obey, whom she would lust to obey, because of love.  The restlessness in her life had been caused by a lack; she had never yet found the man who could be not her tyrant for a time, but her master while she lived.  Now she prayed for that, the only peace that she really wanted.

While she prayed she was conscious always of the attitude of the Bedouin, which suggested the fierce yielding of one who could never be afraid of the God he worshiped.  Nor could she be afraid.  For she was not ashamed of what she was, though she hid what she was from motive of worldly prudence and for the sake of her motherhood.  She believed that she was born into the world not in order to be severely educated, but in order that she might live to the uttermost, according to the dictates of her temperament.  Now at last she knew what that temperament needed, what it had been seeking, why it had never been able to cease from its journeying.  Santa Sophia had told her.

Her knowledge roused in her a sort of fury of longing for release from Dion Leith.  She saw the Bedouin riding across the sands in the freedom he had captured, and she ached to be free that she might seek her master.  Somewhere there must be the one man who had the power to fasten the yoke on her neck.

“Let me find him!” she prayed, almost angrily, and using her will.

She had forgotten Jimmy.  Her whole nature was concentrated in the desire for immediate release from Dion Leith in order that she might be free to pursue consciously the search which till this moment she had pursued unconsciously.

The Bedouin did not move.  His black, bird-like eyes were wide open, but he seemed plunged in a dream as he gazed at the Sacred Carpet.  He was absolutely unaware of his surroundings and of Mrs. Clarke’s consideration of him.  There was something animal and something royal in his appearance and his supreme unconsciousness of others.  He looked as if he were a law unto himself, even while he was adoring.  How different he was from Dion Leith.