She turned to Tressa and caught her hands in both of her own: “It is written on the Iron Pages,” she whispered, “that we belong to Erlik and we return to him. But in the Book of Gold it is written otherwise: ‘God preserve us from Satan who was stoned!’ ... Therefore, in the name of Allah! Now then, Heart of Flame, do your duty!” A burning flush leaped over Tressa’s features. “Is my soul, then, my own!” “It belongs to God,” said Sansa gravely. “And—Sanang?” “God is greatest.” “But—was God there—at the Lake of the Ghosts?” “God is everywhere. It is so written in the Book of Gold,” replied Sansa, pressing her hands tenderly. “Recite the Fatha, Heart of Flame. Thy lips shall not stiffen; God listens.” Tressa rose in the sunset glory and stood as though dazed, and all crimsoned in the last fiery bars of the declining sun. Cleves also rose. Sansa laughed noiselessly: “My lord would go whither thou goest, Heart of Fire!” she whispered. “And thy ways shall be his ways!” Tressa’s cheeks flamed and she turned and looked at Cleves. Then Sansa rose and laid a hand on Tressa’s arm and on her husband’s: “Listen attentively. Tiyang Khan must be destroyed. The signal sounds when my lord’s rifle-shot makes a loud noise here among these trees.” “Can I prevail against the Tchor-Dagh?” asked Tressa, steadily. “Is not that event already in God’s hands, darling?” said Sansa softly. She smiled and resumed her seat beside Selden, amid the drooping fern fronds. “Bid thy dear lord leave his rifle here,” she added quietly. Cleves laid down his weapon. Selden pointed eastward in silence. So they went together into the darkening woods. In the dusk of heavy foliage overhanging the garden, Tressa lay flat as a lizard on the top of the wall. Beside her lay her husband. In the garden below them flowers bloomed in scented thickets, bordered by walks of flat stone slabs split from boulders. A little lawn, very green, centred the garden. And on this lawn, in the clear twilight still tinged with the sombre fires of sundown, squatted a man dressed in a loose white garment. Save for a twisted breadth of white cloth, his shaven head was bare. His sinewy feet were naked, too, the lean, brown toes buried in the grass. Tressa’s lips touched her husband’s ear. “Tiyang Khan,” she breathed. “Watch what he does!” Shoulder to shoulder they lay there, scarcely daring to breathe. Their eyes were fastened on the Mongol Sorcerer, who, squatted below on his haunches, grave and deliberate as a great grey ape, continued busy with the obscure business which so intently preoccupied him. In a short semi-circle on the grass in front of him he had placed a dozen wild Ginseng roots. The roots were enormous, astoundingly shaped like the human body, almost repulsive in their weird symmetry.