ires which had had
their renaissance since Millicent's appearance, were they quite
banished? Had the woman in her white tent meant nothing to him? As if
in contradiction to his words, he flung himself on the sand. A voice
cried within him.

What was he to do with the woman? Oh, God, what was he to do with her?
Spiritually he emptied his arms of her and flung her far from him on
the sands. All day her presence had been too near him--oh, God, far
too near! She was there in her tent, a beautiful vision. Her eyes, as
violet as the night sky, invited him. Her voice, soft with love, wooed
him. It cried again and again: "Turn in, my lord, turn in!"

His knowledge of the East told him that the whole camp expected him to
visit the white tent that night. He was no St. Anthony in their eyes,
resisting his temptation.

For one moment his mind enjoyed the satisfaction of her beauty. The
cup tempered with camphor was rudely dashed from his lips. Some unseen
hand had offered him instead the deep red wine of passion. With the
sudden violence of a southern wind gathering swiftly over the desert,
his emotions were tossed and driven. As the sands lift and rise from
the flatness of the desert into one obliterating column before the
traveller's eyes, so had his vision of the woman obliterated every
other thought from his mind. In the limitless desert there was nothing
but the one white tent of the woman.

In his vision he saw the crimson amethyst hanging from a chain round
her neck. On her white breast it lay like a full drop of pigeon's
blood. Where had this idea come from? Unsought, undesired, what had
forced it with merciless vividness before his eyes? What part of him
responded to her caresses of thanks? What had Akhnaton's jewel to do
with his profane vision?

St. Anthony had never deserved his temptation less. With the distant
glimpse of the white tent which he had caught on his way from the sick
man, desire had stormed the citadel of his soul. Its hidden forces had
surprised and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Michael. It held him in its
grip.

In his agony of spirit he cried aloud. "Margaret! Margaret!
Margaret, if you love me, come to me!"

He pressed his body more closely to the desert sand. Let the great
Mother Earth enfold him.

With all the stars in the heavens shining down upon him, and the clear
sky purifying a world of desolation, Michael lay purging his mind,
cleansing his heart. The white