on the waste. Round the fires were
seated groups of men devouring cous-cous and the red soup beloved of the
nomad. Behind them circled the dogs with quivering nostrils. Squadrons
of camels lay crouched in the sand, resting after their journeys. And
everywhere, from the city and from the waste, rose distant sounds of
music, thin, aerial flutings like voices of the night winds, acrid cries
from the pipes, and the far-off rolling of the African drums that are
the foundation of every desert symphony.

Although she was now accustomed to the music of Africa, Domini could
never hear it without feeling the barbarity of the land from which it
rose, the wildness of the people who made and who loved it. Always it
suggested to her an infinite remoteness, as if it were music sounding
at the end of the world, full of half-defined meanings, melancholy
yet fierce passion, longings that, momentarily satisfied, continually
renewed themselves, griefs that were hidden behind thin veils like the
women of the East, but that peered out with expressive eyes, hinting
their story and desiring assuagement. And tonight the meaning of the
music seemed deeper than it had been before. She thought of it as an
outside echo of the voices murmuring in her mind and heart, and the
voices murmuring in the mind and heart of Androvsky, broken voices some
of them, but some strong, fierce, tense and alive with meaning. And as
she sat there alone she thought this unity of music drew her closer to
the desert than she had ever been before, and drew Androvsky with her,
despite his great reserve. In the heart of the desert he would surely
let her see at last fully into his heart. When he came back in the night
from the priest he would speak. She was waiting for that.

The moon was mounting. Its light grew stronger. She looked across the
sands and saw fires in the city, and suddenly she said to herself, "This
is the vision of the sand-diviner realised in my life. He saw me as I
am now, in this place." And she remembered the scene in the garden,
the crouching figure, the extended arms, the thin fingers tracing swift
patterns in the sand, the murmuring voice.

To-night she felt deeply expectant, but almost sad, encompassed by the
mystery that hangs in clouds about human life and human relations. What
could be that great joy of which the Diviner had spoken? A woman's great
joy that starred the desert with flowers and made the dry places run
with sweet waters. What cou