ow swinging of the whole night, with the music playing
lightly on the surface, making the strange, ecstatic, rippling
on the surface of the dance, but underneath only one great flood
heaving slowly backwards to the verge of oblivion, slowly
forward to the other verge, the heart sweeping along each time,
and tightening with anguish as the limit was reached, and the
movement, at crises, turned and swept back.

As the dance surged heavily on, Ursula was aware of some
influence looking in upon her. Something was looking at her.
Some powerful, glowing sight was looking right into her, not
upon her, but right at her. Out of the great distance, and yet
imminent, the powerful, overwhelming watch was kept upon her.
And she danced on and on with Skrebensky, while the great, white
watching continued, balancing all in its revelation.

"The moon has risen," said Anton, as the music ceased, and
they found themselves suddenly stranded, like bits of jetsam on
a shore. She turned, and saw a great white moon looking at her
over the hill. And her breast opened to it, she was cleaved like
a transparent jewel to its light. She stood filled with the full
moon, offering herself. Her two breasts opened to make way for
it, her body opened wide like a quivering anemone, a soft,
dilated invitation touched by the moon. She wanted the moon to
fill in to her, she wanted more, more communion with the moon,
consummation. But Skrebensky put his arm round her, and led her
away. He put a big, dark cloak round her, and sat holding her
hand, whilst the moonlight streamed above the glowing fires.

She was not there. Patiently she sat, under the cloak, with
Skrebensky holding her hand. But her naked self was away there
beating upon the moonlight, dashing the moonlight with her
breasts and her knees, in meeting, in communion. She half
started, to go in actuality, to fling away her clothing and flee
away, away from this dark confusion and chaos of people to the
hill and the moon. But the people stood round her like stones,
like magnetic stones, and she could not go, in actuality.
Skrebensky, like a load-stone weighed on her, the weight of his
presence detained her. She felt the burden of him, the blind,
persistent, inert burden. He was inert, and he weighed upon her.
She sighed in pain. Oh, for the coolness and entire liberty and
brightness of the moon. Oh, for the cold liberty to be herself,
to do entirely as she liked. She wanted to get right away. She