That night, in the night-time, staring from his mat into the velvet darkness, he did not want to keep her from going, for was not he, Ramiki, going? Then in the morning, with the sound of the crowing of the cocks, that sense of oneness fell again in two. He ceased to love Halmis. He felt again enmity and jealousy, and a great, oh, a great concern for himself. “Arzan! Arzan!” he cried. “Am I not man? Am I not the greater prophet?”
That day all the people saw him go away into a deep wood that yet was left upon the plain. He went with some ostentation of folded arms and brooding forehead. “The god will visit the prophet!” they said. In the evening Ramiki might stand upon the god-stone and break into rhapsody while all who were not preoccupied gathered to hear.
But though Ramiki returned at eve, it was not to the god-stone. He found Halmis in the glow, watching boys and girls who moved in a dance. He and Halmis went away together, down to the boat, for that was the quietest place.
“What did you do in the wood?” asked Halmis. “Sit all day and look at your shadow?”
It was evident that she was willing to quarrel. She was no less capable than Ramiki of formulating the notion that where there was not room for two one must be pushed away. She looked at Ramiki, and Ramiki, rightly or wrongly, suddenly believed that she wished there was blue paint upon his forehead. The thought was as unexpected as an earthquake and well-nigh as devastating.
They parted the reeds and stepped down to the boat. They sat there and looked blackly at each other.
“No, I did not,” said Ramiki, “sit all day and look at my shadow.... I praised Arzan.... Then I heard his voice from the clouds.”
Halmis shivered slightly. “What talk did he make to you?”
“His speech was about women,” said Ramiki fiercely.
“Oh—ah!”