he mercy of my madness. If you speak to me,
little one, I will understand. My stupid senses that retain their
earthly logic will be ravished at the sound of your voice. But I will
chuckle at my cleverness. Tell me, are you mine? Can you say, 'I am
yours'? Can you give yourself to me and deceive me with the beautiful
illusion of submission? Tell me. Speak to me."

Her eyes burning toward him, Rita nodded her head.

"Yours," she whispered. "Whatever you say, I am."

"Clever, clever," Mallare muttered, "it speaks to me and I hear. It says
'yours.' I become too involved. Or perhaps this is only a dream. Of
course, what else can it be? Part of me has fallen asleep and is
dreaming. And because I am mad I fancy myself awake. And my senses obey
me. Desire whispers to them, 'Hear voices. See flesh. Feel desire,' and
like five little awkward masochists they prostrate themselves before my
madness.

"But my senses are of no great interest. There is this other--this mania
of possession of which passion, compounded of all the senses, is but an
unimportant fragment. I am a man with a woman inside him. I possess the
secret of the hermaphroditic Gods. I am complete."

Rita kneeled beside him and his hands stroked her black hair. Her face
remained raised in adoration. Mallare, observing her eyes, nodded
satisfactions at them.

"Who but Mallare could have done this?" he whispered aloud to her.
"Mallare, infatuated with himself, desires still a further adoration. So
he creates infatuated phantoms. I am tired now. My hands are tired.
Return, little one, to the couch of my madness and sleep for a time in
its shadows."

Mallare shut his eyes and his hands dropped to his side. Rita arose and
smiled at him. He had spoken strangely, but his words were no longer
mysteries since he had caressed her. She would lie now at his feet as
she had dreamed of doing. She stretched herself out on the thick carpet.

Her childish mind fondled its unexpected memories. He had looked at her
body and spoken beautiful words to it. She remembered the talk of the
old ones of the caravan. A woman belongs to a man. This meant that she
belonged to him. She had said, "Yours."

Her face smiled itself to sleep.

[Illustration: Fourth Drawing]

[IV]

_From the Journal of Mallare dated November._

"I no longer understand myself. My thoughts stretch themselves into
baffling elasticities. My brain is a labyrinth through which reason
searches in v