athy, and he received it in full
measure, pressed down and running over. He told her his thought, and
he told her his feelings, his schemes, his struggles, his moments of
exaltation, his depressions. Something, much indeed of him was hers, the
egotistic part of a man that does really give, but that keeps back much,
and that seeks much more than it gives. And what he sought she eagerly,
generously gave, with both hands, never counting any cost. Always she
was giving and always he was taking.

Then they were in London, in another room full of books. He stood by a
fire, and she was seated with a bundle of letters in her lap. And his
heart was full of something that was like anger, and of a dull and
smouldering jealousy. And hers was full of a new and wonderful beauty, a
piercing joy.

He sighed deeply. He stirred. He looked up for a moment and listened.

But all the house was silent. And again he bent over the death-charm.

He stood by a door. Outside was the hum of traffic, inside a narrow
room. And now in the magic mirror a third figure showed itself, a figure
of youth incarnate, brave, passionate, thrilling with the joy of life.
He watched it, how coldly, although he felt its charm, the rays of
fire that came from it, as sunbeams come from the sun! And apprehension
stirred within him. And presently in the night, by ebony waters, and by
strange and wandering lights, and under unquiet stars, he told Hermione
something of his fear.

Africa--and the hovering flies, and the dreadful feeling that death's
hands were creeping about his body and trying to lay hold of it! A very
lonely creature lay there in the mirror, with the faint shadow of
a palm-leaf shifting and swaying upon the ghastly whiteness of its
face--himself, in the most desolate hour of his life. As he gazed he was
transported to the City of the Mosques. The years rolled back. He
felt again all, or nearly all, that he had felt then of helplessness,
abandonment, despair. It was frightful to go out thus alone, to be
extinguished in the burning heat of Africa, and laid in that arid soil,
where the vipers slid through the hot crevices of the earth, and the
scorpions bred in the long days of the summer. Now it was evening. He
heard the call to prayer, that wailing, wonderful cry which saluted the
sinking sun.

He remembered exactly how it had come into his ears through the
half-opened window, the sensation of remoteness, of utter solitude,
which it had conveyed