“The story was beautiful. I had not heard it,” she said, and the rich tremor of her voice thrilled Adam. “What woman would not revel in such a story?... Wansfell the Wanderer. It should be Sir Wansfell, Knight of the Desert!... Don’t look at me so. Have you not learned that the grandest act on earth is when a man fights for the honor or love or happiness or life of a woman?... I am a woman. Many men have loved me. Virey’s love is so strong that it is hate. But no man ever yet thought of _me_--no man ever yet heard the little songs that echoed through my soul--no man ever fought to save _me_!... My friend, I dare speak as you speak, with the nakedness of the desert. And so I tell you that just now I watched my husband--I listened to the words which told his nature, as if that was new to me. I watched you stand there--I listened to you.... And so I dare to tell you--if you come to fight my battles I shall have added to my life of shocks and woes a trouble that will dwarf all the others ... the awakening of a woman who has been blind!... The facing of my soul--perhaps its salvation! A crowning agony--a glory come too late!” CHAPTER XVI At sunset Adam cooked supper for the Vireys, satisfying his own needs after they had finished. Virey talked lightly, even joked about the first good meal he had sat down to on the desert. His wife, too, talked serenely, sometimes with the faintly subtle mockery, as if she had never intimated that a dividing spear threatened her heart. That was their way to hide the truth and emotion when they willed. But Adam was silent. Alone, out under the shadow of the towering gate to the valley, he strode to and fro, absorbed in a maze of thoughts that gradually cleared, as if by the light of the solemn stars and virtue of the speaking silence. He had chanced upon the strangest and most fatal situation in all his desert years. Yes, but was it by chance? Straight as an arrow he had come across the barrens to meet a wonderful woman who was going to love him, and a despicable man whom he was going to kill. That seemed the fatality which rang in his ears, shone in the accusing stars, hid in the heavy shadows. It was a matter of feeling. His intelligence could not grasp it. Had he been in Death Valley four days or four months? Was he walking in his sleep, victim of a nightmare? The desert, faithful always, answered him. This was nothing but the flux and reflux of human passion, contending tides between man and woman, the littleness, the curse, the terror, and yet the joy of life. Death Valley yawned at his feet, changeless and shadowy, awful in its locked solemnity of solitude, its voicelessness, its desolation that had been desolation in past ages. He could doubt nothing there. His thoughts seemed almost above human error. A spirit spoke for him.