he lamp upon the water, for the stain
she had seen and which had looked like a crimson rose above the heart
of Hugh Carden Ali, as he lay asleep, with his feet turned towards
Mecca.

"God!" she prayed. "You Who alone can save me and--everyone--from
shame; You Who can hide me from--Ben--show me a way out--show me a way
out!" And as she repeated the words, the answer came.

"Of course," she whispered. "Right out in the desert, out on the
sands, alone with my shame, where, when this has been forgotten,
perhaps all that will be left of me will be found by some wandering
Bedouin, who will bury me deep in the sand."

She was genuinely remorseful and horrified at what she had done, but
also was she, as are so many of us who do not really feel deeply,
pleasurably thrilled at the thought of the dramatic picture in which
she should be the centre figure.

If only men knew it, that is why so many women create such terrific
scenes over nothing at all--it gives them a chance of donning their
most effective gown and pulling their hair--if their own--down about
their shoulders.

Not even then did she grasp the full meaning of love!

She parted the curtain at the back of the room of prayer, and looked
out across the desert and behold! standing upon the tips of slender
feet, wrapped about in binding cloths of grey and white, there stood a
figure.

And the wind of dawn, upon whose wings are wafted the liberated souls
into the safe keeping of Allah, who is God, lifted for one instant the
veil from before the face.

Just for a moment she looked upon the eyes alight with no earthly
happiness and the tender mouth smiling in farewell, and then the wind
lifted the soft cloth of grey and white and bound it across the
hawklike face.

Half-turned, the figure stood with beckoning hand outstretched. And to
the girl was granted the Vision of the Legions at Dawn.

There was no sound in all the limitless desert, yet the air was filled
as with the tramp of feet, the thunder of horses, the rumble of wheels.

They came from nowhere, those countless legions, from out of the
shadows of the spent night. They walked in phalanxes, the uncountable
spirits of dead kingdoms, with eyes uplifted to the dawn; spears
raised, mouths open, with their shouts of welcome to the break of day,
they rode their horses thundering down the path of Time; they drove
their four-horsed chariots straight towards the cup of gold which
rested on the rim of the worl