"Yes—but the desert-men—"
"They are my children."
"But she has not had you for strength."
"She has not needed me for strength. My son, her faith is above yours. A woman rises into her faith more quickly than a man—"
A kind of moan came from the white man's lips.
"You mean she is at peace—that she is not crying out for me?"
"I mean that she is well and content to wait until you come. She is holding up her arms—for the white fire. When a woman is great enough for that, my son, her arms do not long remain empty."
"Do you mean to tell me that Anna Erivan would have me go to Tientsin and report this mere verbal intelligence—before going to her?"
Rajananda took his hand from Romney's and fumbled in his robe for a moment, drawing forth a little leathern packet pinned with a seven-fold swastika of gold. From an inner fold of this he drew out a paper which Romney took with a thrill of passionate joy. He had never seen Anna Erivan's writing, yet he knew that this was penned by her own hand:
My Beloved: Finish your mission and hurry back to me. Carry forth your sign even though it seems to fail for the time. I am waiting for you in the hills. They will show you where I am. Remember my last words. All is well. My love stands above all. Come swiftly to
Anna Erivan.