“There is something tremendous in your soul. He says it is as if all the date palms of the desert bore their fruit together, and in all the dry places, where men and camels have died of thirst in bygone years, running springs burst forth, and as if the sand were covered with millions of golden flowers big as the flower of the aloe.” “But then it is joy, it must be joy!” “He says it is great joy.” “Then why does he look like that, breathe like that?” She indicated the Diviner, who was trembling where he crouched, and breathing heavily, and always sweating like one in agony. “There is more,” said the Count, slowly. “Tell me.” “You stand alone upon the dunes and you look towards the city. He hears the tomtoms beating, and distant cries as if there were a fantasia. Then he sees a figure among the dunes coming towards you.” “Who is it?” she asked. He did not answer. But she did not wish him to answer. She had spoken without meaning to speak. “You watch this figure. It comes to you, walking heavily.” “Walking heavily?” “That’s what he says. The dates shrivel on the palms, the streams dry up, the flowers droop and die in the sand. In the city the tomtoms faint away and the red fires fade away. All is dark and silent. And then he sees--” “Wait!” Domini said almost sharply. He sat looking at her. She pressed her hands together. In her dark face, with its heavy eyebrows and strong, generous mouth, a contest showed, a struggle between some quick desire and some more sluggish but determined reluctance. In a moment she spoke again. “I won’t hear anything more, please.” “But you said ‘whatever it may be.’” “Yes. But I won’t hear anything more.” She spoke very quietly, with determination. The Diviner was beginning to move his hands again, to make fresh patterns in the sand, to speak swiftly once more. “Shall I stop him?” “Please.” “Then would you mind going out into the garden? I will join you in a moment. Take care not to disturb him.” She got up with precaution, held her skirts together with her hands, and slipped softly out on to the garden path. For a moment she was inclined to wait there, to look back and see what was happening in the _fumoir_. But she resisted her inclination, and walked on slowly till she reached the bench where she had sat an hour before with Androvsky. There she sat down and waited. In a few minutes she saw the Count coming towards her alone. His face was very grave, but lightened with a slight smile when he saw her. “He has gone?” she asked. “Yes.” He was about to sit beside her, but she said quickly: “Would you mind going back to the jamelon tree?” “Where we sat this morning?” “Was it only--yes.” “Certainly.” “Oh; but you are going away to-morrow! You have a lot to do probably?” “Nothing. My men will arrange everything.”