An emotional stir vibrated through the crowd. Eyes exchanged messages. Julie looked around to find that a young Spaniard had pressed in next to her and was regarding her with all the ardor of his eyes. Through the wide open galleries the moonlit vision of an intoxicating night appeared, and subtle vows seemed to whisper all down the reaches of the tropical dusk. The young man’s glance seemed to say, “Let us go—and follow the night!”
When the palpitating circle broke, Julie crept away in search of a small stair-case, which she remembered to have seen when she had stopped with Isabel. It was quite impossible for her to escape unseen by the main stair-case.
She came out upon a small gallery somewhere at the remote end of the house. There were others upon this gallery. Their figures, very near her, were clearly outlined in the silver tones of the moonlight.
Julie stared hard, then quickly dropped back into the shadow. She waited stiller than the night itself, for she knew she had stepped into a critical moment of a life so deeply allied to her own that her being palpitated to every developing turn of it.
Long before Barry could have done so, Julie divined what was to happen.
The two were standing looking beyond the garden, that seemed to sing in its creation, to the spires of the city frosted under the rising moon. Isabel was pointing to it: “How can you bear to give it up?”
Julie, watching, saw the spasm that contracted Barry’s tired features.
“I don’t see how, exactly, we can help ourselves!” he replied. “I am not a State, you see, I’m only an individual, very small after all.”
“And thus ends the grand scheme to democratize the East.”
“It looks that way.”