"Then the door from above opened, and a girl came down. And all at once, in spite of myself, and in a manner I cannot explain, all my languor left me and a fever filled my veins. I rose, and, walking across the sleeping bodies, went near to her, threw aside her veil, bent down, and kissed her on the mouth.
"She did not move or speak; only a shudder went through her, and it was not of fear or aversion.
"I drew from her at last, and, the light creeping up through the windows, could look at her.
"She was not a Malay; she was not, I thought, a Hindoo: something of a Cingalese, a Cingalese of the hill-tops, nearly white, of features almost classic, a nose finely Hebraic, and eyes of an Aryan gipsy.
"'I have been watching you,' she said, in perfect English; 'watching and waiting. Did you not feel the incense in your nostrils—that was my love-spell. And it has worked.'
"Again I stooped and kissed her.
"'I like that,' she said, with a little laugh. 'It is a good thing of the white men's. See, I will try to act thus also,' and she in her turn had reached up and kissed me.
"I leaned forward to seize her, but she slid through my grasp and had flown up the stairs.
"'To-night,' she whispered, 'by the old pagoda, I will weave you another love-spell.'
