The voice of Ali rose again, and his torch flickered on the soft wind of the night. Its movement was slow and eerie. It seemed like his voice made visible, a voice of flame in the blackness of the world. They watched it. Presently she said once more:
“You know what is in my heart—don’t you?”
“Do I?” he said. “All?”
“All. My heart is full of one thing—quite full.”
“Then I know.”
“And,” she hesitated, then added, “and yours?”
“Mine too.”
“I know all that is in it then?”
She still spoke questioningly. He did not reply, but held her more closely, with a grasp that was feverish in its intensity.
“Do you remember,” she went on, “in the garden what you said about that song?”