| “From the desert I come to thee On my Arab shod with fire....” |
It was a work of art in miniature. The crescendo passages were sung relatively with that introductory golden whisper as a standard. For the moment Sylvia forgot that the singer’s shoulders were beautifully compact and vigorous. She was visualizing the Bedouin who came on his horse to declare his passion.
| “And I faint in thy disdain!...” |
She stood near him, spellbound by the animation of his face, the seeming reality of his plea. He was not a singer; he was the Bedouin lover.
There was a fanatic ardor in the last phrase:
| “Till the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!” |
He turned lightly away from the piano. He was smiling radiantly. He threw out his arms with an air of inviting approval; but the gesture was to her an invitation, a call. She was instantly on her knees beside him, drawing his face down to hers. His low laughter rippled against her face as he put his arms around her and drew her closer to him.
They were rejoicing in an atmosphere of dusky gold. The light from the mediæval lanterns fell on her hair and on his laughing face which glowed as with a kind of universal good-will. A cloud of delicate incense seemed to envelop them as their lips met.
And then the shadow fell. It fell when the door opened quietly and Harboro came into the room.
He closed the door behind him and regarded them strangely—as if his face had died, but as if his eyes retained the power of seeing.