of the place, the
shadows--the possessing voice of the woman.

SHE crouched back toward the door.

IT is you--you! she muttered accusingly.

NO, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now

TWO men came running attracted by his loud voice

THEY lead the gypsy to a place of security

IT is you, she kept muttering to each in turn.

THE young man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.

CONFLICT

IT is night--a moonlight night in the Orient--

THE earth is flooded in mystic beauty--

MIDNIGHT songbirds in the trees.

AND the Palace of the Sultan--great marble halls--fountains of running
water--moonlight shining in.

STRANGE, weird music of the desert played by slaves.

IT is the picturesque setting of a strange tale--a tale of inward
struggle.

THE Sultan--lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East--softened by
the night's mysterious light.

AMONG flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.

HIS dancing girls have left--his bronzed face--framed in black hair--his
dark eyes--wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire--Life holds
nothing new for him--only the continuation of old pleasures.

AT last a heavy portiere is lifted.

PERHAPS you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty--a slave--

THE girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European--a Russian of noble
birth.

AMONG the palms of the Orient--almost as a slave she sojourns in the
palace of the Sultan.

ONLY one of many, a passionate love holds her there.

EVER following--pursuing, is the other self--the gentle nature, which
understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and
loves--yet--has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle
nature whispers to the dominant one--

Lift yourself up and come away--I will lead you far from the
moonlight--the overpowering perfumes--into the bleak light of day--peace
will find you.

No--the stillness of the night--the kisses of my Sultan content
me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud--even the moonlight could not
quiet it.

PULLING against the inner self--her heart must break.

THE soft music of the slaves--once it had soothed her--but now--

IT was the howling wind of a northern land--of Russia--or the pealing of
a bell--There had been a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood
had been spent.

THE inner voice called Katherine--but could not yet overcome the blood
which flowed in Katherine's veins--the blood of a