s burning? Would it not be
wiser to seek peace and ensue it? As she drove to Santa Sophia she had
longed fiercely to be free so that she might begin again; might again
have adventures, might again explore the depths of human personalities,
and satisfy her abnormal curiosities and desires. Now she was full of
unusual hesitation. Suppose she did succeed in getting rid of Dion by
going to England, suppose her prayer--she had not offered it up yet, but
she was going to offer it up in a moment--to the Unknown God received a
favorable answer, might it not be well for her future happiness if she
retired from the passionate life, with its perpetual secrecies, and
intrigues, and lies, and violent efforts, into the life of the ideal
mother, solely devoted to her only child?

She felt that the struggle with Dion, the horrible scenes she had had
with him, the force of her hatred of him and his hatred of her, the
necessity of yielding to him in hatred that which should never be given
save with desire, had tried her as nothing else had ever tried her.
She felt that her vitality was low, and she supposed that out of that
lowered vitality had come her uncharacteristic desire for peace. She had
almost envied for a moment the woman whom she had replaced in the life
of Dion. Even now--she sighed; a great weariness possessed her. Was she
going to be subject to a weakness which she had always despised, the
weakness of regret?

She paused beside a column not very far from the raised tribune on the
left of the dome which is set apart for the use of the Sultan, and is
called the Sultan's seat. Her large eyes stared at it, but at first
she did not see it. She was looking onward upon herself. Then, in some
distant part of the mosque, a boy's voice began to sing, loudly, almost
fiercely. It sounded fanatical and defiant, but tremendously believing,
proud in the faith which it proclaimed to faithful and unfaithful alike.
It echoed about the mosque, raising a clamor which nobody seemed to
heed; for the few ulemas who were visible continued reading the Koran
aloud on the low railed-in platforms which they frequent; a Dervish in
a pointed hat slept peacefully on, stretched out in a corner; before
the prayer carpet of the Prophet, not far from the Mihrab, a half-naked
Bedouin, with a sheep-skin slung over his bronzed shoulders, preserved
his wild attitude of savage adoration; and here and there, in the
distance, under the low hanging myriads of lamps