Nor did she woo in vain.  There were stanzas in her dance of simple gratitude, as if the spirit of the mystery had found her mood acceptable and dowered her with new ability to see, and know, and understand.  Even the two watchers, hand in hand a hundred paces off, felt something of the power of vision she had gained, and thrilled at its wonder.

Borne on new wings of fancy now her dance became a very image of those infinite ideas she had seen and felt.  She herself, Yasmini, was a part of all she saw—­mistress of all she knew—­own sister of the beauty in the moonlight and the peace that filled the glade.  The night itself—­ moon, sky and lotus-dappled water—­trees -growth and grace and stillness, were part of her and she of them.  Verily that minute she, Yasmini, danced with the gods and knew them for what in truth they are—­ideas a little lower, a little less essential than the sons of men.

Then, as if that knowledge were the climax of attainment, and its ownership a spell that could command the very lips of night, there came a man’s voice calling from the temple in the ancient Rajasthani tongue.

“Oh, moon of my desire!  Oh, dear delight!  Oh, spirit of all gladness!  Come!”

Instantly the dance ceased.  Instantly the air of triumph left her.  As a flower’s petals shut at evening, fragrant with promise of a dawn to come, she stood and let a new mood clothe her with humility; for all that grace of high attainment given her were nothing, unless she, too, made of it a gift.  That night her purpose was to give the whole of what she knew herself to be.

So, with arms to her sides and head erect, she walked straight toward the temple; and a man came out to meet her, tall and strong, who strode like a scion of a stock of warriors.  They met mid-way and neither spoke, but each looked in the other’s eyes, then took each other’s hands, and stood still minute after minute.  Hasamurti, gripping Tess’s fingers, caught her breath in something like a sob, while Tess could think of nothing else than Brynhild’s oath: 

        “O Sigurd, Sigurd,
        Now hearken while I swear! 
        The day shall die forever
        And the sun to darkness wear
        Ere I forget thee, Sigurd....”

Her lips repeated it over and over, like a prayer, until the man put his arm about Yasmini and they turned and walked together to the temple.  Then Hasamurti tugged at Tess, and they followed, keeping their distance, until Yasmini and her lover sat on one stone in the moonlight on the temple porch, their faces clearly lighted by the mellow beams.  Then Tess and Hasamurti took their stand again, hand in each other’s hand, and watched once more.

It was love-making such as Tess had never dreamed of,—­and Tess was no familiar of hoydenish amours; gentle—­poetic—­dignified on his part—­manly as the plighting of the troth of warriors’ sons should be.  Yasmini’s was the attitude of simple self-surrender, stripped of all pretense, devoid of any other spirit than the will to give herself and all she had, and knowledge that her gift was more than gold and rubles.