Through the splendor of the night they went—through its mystery, its beauty.
She, tense, frightened lest her power should fail on the verge of success—
He in a kind of trance, with wavering mind—strange thoughts—nothing clear—a haze
They stopped under a great oak.
Do you remember your Egyptian Dancer asked Donna Maria for the hundredth time.
Egyptian Dancer, he answered tonelessly. No, I tell you I killed him.
With a sense of victory she led him on through the night.
Her mind incessantly repeated to the overpowered mind of the artist