e moon was rising, the distant music was
becoming more distinct. She could not listen to Hadj.

As they turned into the street of the sand-diviner the first ray of the
moon fell on the white road. Far away at the end of the street Domini
could see the black foliage of the trees in the Gazelles' garden, and
beyond, to the left, a dimness of shadowy palms at the desert edge. The
desert itself was not visible. Two Arabs passed, shrouded in burnouses,
with the hoods drawn up over their heads. Only their black beards could
be seen. They were talking violently and waving their arms. Suzanne
shuddered and drew close to the poet. Her plump face worked and she
glanced appealingly at her mistress. But Domini was not thinking of her,
or of violence or danger. The sound of the tomtoms and hautboys
seemed suddenly much louder now that the moon began to shine, making a
whiteness among the white houses of the village, the white robes of the
inhabitants, a greater whiteness on the white road that lay before
them. And she was thinking that the moon whiteness of Beni-Mora was more
passionate than pure, more like the blanched face of a lover than the
cool, pale cheek of a virgin. There was excitement in it, suggestion
greater even than the suggestion of the tremendous coloured scenes of
the evening that preceded such a night. And she mused of white heat and
of what it means--the white heat of the brain blazing with thoughts that
govern, the white heat of the heart blazing with emotions that make such
thoughts seem cold. She had never known either. Was she incapable of
knowing them? Could she imagine them till there was physical heat in
her body if she was incapable of knowing them? Suzanne and the two Arabs
were distant shadows to her when that first moon-ray touched their feet.
The passion of the night began to burn her, and she thought she would
like to take her soul and hold it out to the white flame.

As they passed the sand-diviner's house Domini saw his spectral figure
standing under the yellow light of the hanging lantern in the middle
of his carpet shop, which was lined from floor to ceiling with dull
red embroideries and dim with the fumes of an incense brazier. He was
talking to a little boy, but keeping a wary eye on the street, and he
came out quickly, beckoning with his long hands, and calling softly, in
a half-chuckling and yet authoritative voice:

"Venez, Madame, venez! Come! come!"

Suzanne seized Domini's arm.

"Not