Yet surely, in doing this deed of kindness, even though it was affected by self-interest, he had already drunk of the cup tempered with camphor? The desires of his frail human flesh, desires which had had their renaissance since Millicent's appearance, were they quite banished? Had the woman in her white tent meant nothing to him? As if in contradiction to his words, he flung himself on the sand. A voice cried within him.
What was he to do with the woman? Oh, God, what was he to do with her? Spiritually he emptied his arms of her and flung her far from him on the sands. All day her presence had been too near him—oh, God, far too near! She was there in her tent, a beautiful vision. Her eyes, as violet as the night sky, invited him. Her voice, soft with love, wooed him. It cried again and again: "Turn in, my lord, turn in!"
His knowledge of the East told him that the whole camp expected him to visit the white tent that night. He was no St. Anthony in their eyes, resisting his temptation.
For one moment his mind enjoyed the satisfaction of her beauty. The cup tempered with camphor was rudely dashed from his lips. Some unseen hand had offered him instead the deep red wine of passion. With the sudden violence of a southern wind gathering swiftly over the desert, his emotions were tossed and driven. As the sands lift and rise from the flatness of the desert into one obliterating column before the traveller's eyes, so had his vision of the woman obliterated every other thought from his mind. In the limitless desert there was nothing but the one white tent of the woman.
In his vision he saw the crimson amethyst hanging from a chain round her neck. On her white breast it lay like a full drop of pigeon's blood. Where had this idea come from? Unsought, undesired, what had forced it with merciless vividness before his eyes? What part of him responded to her caresses of thanks? What had Akhnaton's jewel to do with his profane vision?
St. Anthony had never deserved his temptation less. With the distant glimpse of the white tent which he had caught on his way from the sick man, desire had stormed the citadel of his soul. Its hidden forces had surprised and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Michael. It held him in its grip.
In his agony of spirit he cried aloud. "Margaret! Margaret!
Margaret, if you love me, come to me!"
He pressed his body more closely to the desert sand. Let the great
Mother Earth enfold him.
With all the stars in the heavens shining down upon him, and the clear sky purifying a world of desolation, Michael lay purging his mind, cleansing his heart. The white tent became very distant, a mere speck on his mental horizon.
Suddenly his senses became alert; he felt a presence very close to him. No footfall on the sand had warned him that he was no longer alone; he was simply conscious that some one was standing by his side. He jumped up, anxious to see who it was; he had been lying face downwards on the sand. No one was there. He listened. Surely he had not been mistaken? Someone had touched him gently with their hands, some presence had come quite close to him. He was conscious that a feeling of peace had come to him, as if virtue had passed into him from those unseen hands. Then suddenly he knew that Margaret was beside him; they were standing together as they had stood together on the night when they plighted their troth. He could hear her saying, "I have come to you, Mike. You called me and so I came." He could feel the divine beauty of her passion, the exquisite wonder of her love. Her presence was as real and helpful to him as though his arms encircled her material body.