We passed through interminable corridors. I was disturbed, but the warm water had given me a certain feeling of detachment. And above all, more than I wished to admit, I had a growing sense of lively curiosity. If, at that moment, someone had offered to lead me back to the route across the white plain near Shikh-Salah, would I have accepted? Hardly. I tried to feel ashamed of my curiosity. I thought of Maillefeu. "He, too, followed this corridor. And now he is down there, in the red marble hall." I had no time to linger over this reminiscence. I was suddenly bowled over, thrown to the ground, as if by a sort of meteor. The corridor was dark; I could see nothing. I heard only a mocking growl. The white Targa had flattened himself back against the wall. "Good," I mumbled, picking myself up, "the deviltries are beginning." We continued on our way. A glow different from that of the rose night lights soon began to light up the corridor. We reached a high bronze door, in which a strange lacy design had been cut in filigree. A clear gong sounded, and the double doors opened part way. The Targa remained in the corridor, closing the doors after me. I took a few steps forward mechanically, then paused, rooted to the spot, and rubbed my eyes. I was dazzled by the sight of the sky. Several hours of shaded light had unaccustomed me to daylight. It poured in through one whole side of the huge room. The room was in the lower part of this mountain, which was more honeycombed with corridors and passages than an Egyptian pyramid. It was on a level with the garden which I had seen in the morning from the balcony, and seemed to be a continuation of it; the carpet extended out under the great palm trees and the birds flew about the forest of pillars in the room. By contrast, the half of the room untouched by direct light from the oasis seemed dark. The sun, setting behind the mountain, painted the garden paths with rose and flamed with red upon the traditional flamingo which stood with one foot raised at the edge of the sapphire lake. Suddenly I was bowled over a second time. I felt a warm, silky touch, a burning breath on my neck. Again the mocking growl which had so disturbed me in the corridor. With a wrench, I pulled myself free and sent a chance blow at my assailant. The cry, this time of pain and rage, broke out again. It was echoed by a long peal of laughter. Furious, I turned to look for the insolent onlooker, thinking to speak my mind. And then my glance stood still. Antinea was before me. In the dimmest part of the room, under a kind of arch lit by the mauve rays from a dozen incense-lamps, four women lay on a heap of many-colored cushions and rare white Persian rugs.