ice of by those
Moors. I am not an optimist like our friend there," he continued in a
low tone nodding toward the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up in
the chair. "I don't regard all this as a farce and I have discovered
in myself a strong objection to having my throat cut by those gorgeous
barbarians after a lot of fatuous talk. Don't ask me why, Mrs. Travers.
Put it down to an absurd weakness."

Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her hands to
her head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d'Alcacer saw the mass of
her clear gleaming hair fall down and spread itself over her shoulders.
She seized half of it in her hands which looked very white, and with her
head inclined a little on one side she began to make a plait.

"You are terrifying," he said after watching the movement of her fingers
for a while.

"Yes . . . ?" she accentuated interrogatively.

"You have the awfulness of the predestined. You, too, are the prey of
dreams."

"Not of the Moors, then," she uttered, calmly, beginning the other
plait. D'Alcacer followed the operation to the end. Close against her,
her diaphanous shadow on the muslin reproduced her slightest movements.
D'Alcacer turned his eyes away.

"No! No barbarian shall touch you. Because if it comes to that I believe
_he_ would be capable of killing you himself."

A minute elapsed before he stole a glance in her direction. She was
leaning back again, her hands had fallen on her lap and her head with a
plait of hair on each side of her face, her head incredibly changed in
character and suggesting something medieval, ascetic, drooped dreamily
on her breast.

D'Alcacer waited, holding his breath. She didn't move. In the dim gleam
of jewelled clasps, the faint sheen of gold embroideries and the shimmer
of silks, she was like a figure in a faded painting. Only her neck
appeared dazzlingly white in the smoky redness of the light. D'Alcacer's
wonder approached a feeling of awe. He was on the point of moving away
quietly when Mrs. Travers, without stirring in the least, let him hear
the words:

"I have told him that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don't you
see how impossible this is?"

D'Alcacer glanced rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed to
be asleep all in a heap and presenting a ruffled appearance like a sick
bird. Nothing was distinct of him but the bald patch on the top of his
head.

"Yes," he murmured, "it is most unfortunate. . . .