Susan was waiting in the room with the Arabic frescoes. Walking up and down with the stride of a dervish, she fought against her darkening fears. The flame was burning low. How was it with Lucas Anselmo? Her deep awareness of him, her sense of living for him, had not grown feebler during these years of radiance and fulfilment. The dancer who was his work, into whom he had breathed the breath of life and art, had been to her, now as before, the assurance of his being and the message of his soul. And what was happening now? Darkness was creeping on; the shadow-creature of his making drooped in its lovely motions. Was the hand that had formed and commanded it stricken and cold? Had that lofty spirit grown weary, and lost the strength to project itself afar? Had the end come? Eva entered. She was startled by Susan’s appearance, and sat down on a couch, at whose head stood glowing hortensias that were renewed each morning. The sea wind had chilled her. The eyes in their carven hollows were stern. “What do you want?” she asked. “I think we ought to leave,” Susan answered. “It is foolish to delay. The small military escort that is on the way from Yalta could not protect us if the castle were to be attacked.” “What are you afraid of?” Eva asked again. “Of men?” “Yes, I am afraid of men; and it is a very reasonable fear. Use your imagination, and think of their bodies and voices. We ought to leave.” “It is foolish to be afraid of men,” Eva insisted, leaning her arm on the pillows and her head upon her hand. Susan said: “But you too are afraid. Or what is it? What is happening to you? Is it fear? What are you afraid of?” “Afraid ... yes, I am afraid,” Eva murmured. “Of what? I don’t know. Of shadows and dreams. Something has gone from me; my guardian deity has fled. That makes me afraid.” Susan trembled at these confirmatory words. “Shall we order our boxes packed?” she asked humbly. Overhearing her question Eva continued: “Fear grows from guilt. Look you, I wander about here, and am guilty. I open my garment because it binds me, and feel my guilt. I stretch out my hand after one of those blue blossoms, and know my guilt. I think and think, and brood and brood, and cannot fathom the reason. The innermost, ultimate reason--I cannot find it.” “Guilt?” Susan stammered in her consternation. “Guilty? You? Child, what are you saying? You are ill! Dearest, sweetest, you are ill!” She kneeled at Eva’s feet, embraced her delicate body, and looked up at her with swimming eyes. “Let us flee, dear heart, let us flee to our friends. I knew this land would kill you. Yesterday’s wilderness which your enchantment transformed into an unreal paradise still guards the old malevolence of its remote and accursed earth. Arise and smile, dear one. I shall sit down at the piano and play Schumann, whom you love. I shall bring you a mirror, that you may behold yourself and see how beautiful you still are. Who that is so beautiful can be guilty?”