BOOK TWO (continued 2)

"What's this!" he exclaimed. "Those two little tents have been put up in the place where I had ordered the big tent to be pitched. We'll have to start over again. What a nuisance! Oh, well, perhaps we can manage after all. Or shall I get them changed?"

"Capital as they are," some one exclaimed.

They ate their supper on the slope of a hill, and watched the daylight fade while the moon rose. Diana was very quiet, almost one might say absent-minded. She ran her fingers through the herbage, picked the twigs from off her rug, whispered to the night-birds and the beasts that came shyly peering round the rocks, stroked the long velvety ears of the greyhound. They all sought their tents while the night was young, for they wished to be afoot before sunrise. Gregor called for a bowl of water, then sent the man away to sleep. He himself kept vigil. Should he venture? Was he really more than twenty-five? Was he his own son? He felt so young and could think of nothing but the moment when she had uttered his name as she flew over the steppe: "Gregor!"

Diana had closed her tent in order to discard her habit and slip into a cool, silk kimono. Now she flung back the flap and sat on the ground at the mouth of the tent in the crouching attitude of a gypsy. She slowly rolled back her wide sleeves, thinking the while: "How well this orange-coloured silk matches the tent and the steppe." As her gaze travelled to the sky and over the moon-shriven land, she had hardly a thought in her head. Then, suddenly, she was musing again: "How otherwise account for all these preparations? ... Can a woman ever truly know the man who desires her without first giving him what he wants? ... He has a finely turned leg, and there's a look of youth in his blue eyes, and he rides as well as I, better than any man I've known since Bogdanoff, the maddest of lovers.... Of one thing at least I am certain: grey locks make a stronger appeal to me this night than any fair head could...."

Gregor made a tour of the camp before turning in. He took mental note of where each tent stood. Then he secured Abdul to a tree at the farther end of the camp, bidding him lie down and be quiet. Slowly he returned to his tent. He waited. One by one the lights were extinguished, silence brooded over the land, only the horses, rubbing their heads together, made a soft, velvety sound. Diana's tent was dark. Was she sitting within, dreaming? Or was she waiting—for him? Had she not once spoken words of condemnation against women who were "prim and prudish"? Was she unaware of the effect such words would have upon a man of his temperament? There had been no preliminary skirmishes. Everything would depend on the success of one single move. He had to take a risk such as, owing to his position, he had not ventured for at least twenty years—or was it only fifteen since he had given chase to the beautiful Beata...?

This last memory stirred the fires of his imagination. He rose and stood for a while at the mouth of the tent, listening. As if the better to hear, he raised himself on the tips of his toes. Then he fastened his tent from without, and crept softly towards the spot where her tent reared its point into the night sky. Two resolute strides brought him to the entry. He seized the tapes and secured the flap behind him. He was inside.

CHAPTER EIGHT

At the very hour when Gregor entered Diana's moonlit tent, the countess sat at dinner with Andreas.

The small marble table at which they were dining was in a remote corner of the garden, and the old butler who served them shook his head patiently over this new whim of his mistress. Since the nook the countess had chosen was so small as not to admit of a sideboard of any kind, the man had to make the best of an ivy-clad stump whereon to place his dishes. In the end, he had contrived everything in so tasteful and charming a way, that when Olivia led her guest into the enclosure through an archway cut in the hedge, she smiled her gratitude and appreciation to her faithful servitor. In her own peculiar and anarchistic way she was always more courteous and considerate to her servants than it was customary for women in her station to be. Consequently she was, as a mistress, at once more respected and more often cheated than most. As soon as the dessert had been placed on the table, she made a sign to the butler, who promptly disappeared within doors. As soon as he had gone, she said:

"You are worried about something."

"Yes."

"What has happened?"

"Othello, I've lost him."

"What, the Great Dane you told me about and have always refused to bring to see me?"

"Today I did bring him. It's the first time for pretty well a fortnight that I've taken him for a walk through the town. I've usually let him out for a run in the hotel park. Well, we got here at eight. In the vestibule, Othello began snuffing around. I told him to lie down and wait while I went into the office to see if there were any letters for me—you know I'm having all my correspondence sent here because I can't stand the idea of every letter being mauled about and examined by my worthy Austrian compatriots. I'd hardly been absent three minutes, yet when I came back Othello was nowhere to be seen. In all the four years since we have lived together the dog has never given me the slip before."

"Have you any idea as to where he may have gone?"

Andreas did not answer, and she had a shrewd suspicion that he guessed the dog's whereabouts. She had all along been wondering why Andreas was so set against bringing Othello to see her, and guessed that the dog was associated in his mind with some poignant memory or other. Could it be that of another woman? She had been too immersed in her own dreams and yearnings to pursue the matter further. And now, tonight, when at last they were alone with the chance of enjoying one another's company undisturbed, was their evening to be spoilt because of the vagaries of a dog? Resolutely she set herself to win the man.

During the fifteen years of her married life Olivia had had very few evenings at her own free disposal. Gregor had been raised to ambassadorial rank ten years ago, and about the same time he had resumed his life of adventurous love affairs. This might have given her the freedom she needed, but she very seldom made use of her opportunities, far seldomer than her nature might have led one to suppose. She instinctively shunned the homage of men of aristocratic birth, people of rank and station. Her womanhood craved for a love whose impetuous and turbulent waters should flow from inexhaustible springs of passion. The moment Andreas stood before her, she knew that his was the poet nature she had been awaiting all these years.

He for his part had been enmeshed in the coils of desire ever since he had beheld the superb form of this Venetian beauty reclining on the divan, had seen the passionate curve of the lips and throat, the golden glory of her hair. He knew in a flash that he was for her and she for him.

In silence, now, the two sat dreaming, wandering along the highways and byways of their memories. As Olivia watched the poet's face emerging into the light of the overhanging lampions and retreating into the shadows again, she knew that the memories crowding into the mind of this young man were richer than her own, but that in the realm of dreams hers was the more abundant recollection.

Andreas gazed at her across the table, and as he gazed, the agitation which had filled him since Othello's disappearance was gradually tranquillized. He forgot his trouble. Slowly he stretched his arm towards her, the back of his hand resting on the marble slab. Slowly she raised her full round arm and laid her shapely hand in his. They had never before touched one another. They had studiously avoided any contact which might raise desires they had no possibility of assuaging, for both were keenly aware of their own passionate natures. Now their hearts were filled with fear and hope. For the first time Andreas felt her hand in his. It lay dry and cool upon his palm. Slowly he bent forward, and put his lips to her arm. He was dimly aware that this first kiss was a foretaste of all that was to follow, and while he, with closed eyes, sank his lips into her white flesh, she leaned back and gazed earnestly down upon the dark head of her lover. When, after a long interval, he raised his eyes to hers, she got up and led him through the green archway and down towards the river. A wild and overgrown path led them to a crag whence they could see immemorial cedars stretching columnar arms skyward out of the immensity of the waters. The undergrowth had never been cleared in this spot, huge clusters of ferns pushed up through the tangle, the broom had thickened into veritable bushes, and cherry laurels, tall and impenetrable, had gathered around the trunks of the cedar trees. From below came the everlasting lap of the waters upon the stones, and, amid all these sounds of a primeval world, could be heard the pulsating paddle of a tiny steamer, far away, its twinkling lights reflected in the water.

To the poet, as he followed the pale gleam of Olivia's ample garments, it seemed that he was being led to the gates of death and that his guide was holding the fateful scales that should seal his doom. On reaching the top of the rocky eminence Olivia moved slowly towards the huge trunk of one of the cedars and leaned her back against it, a smile on her lips such as he had never seen there before, an expression he could never have expected to behold on this face, a look half shy and half alluring. Throwing wide his arms he folded her to him, pressing her against the tree, and pressing the back of his hands against the rough bark, while with the palms he felt the soft contact of her body and her hair. When at last the long kiss came to an end, the name he had spoken at their first meeting rose to his mind, but the sweet and melancholy gains of this present hour left no other wish but to utter the word he had whispered so many times during the last fortnight:

"Olivia!"

All that was woman in her responded to the man in him. She left the support of the tree and flung herself against him, pulled him to her in a closer and closer embrace, and pressed her lips to his as she murmured:

"Andreas!"

Two hours later he was once again in her great blue room. She had given him the key of a private door into the park and told him how he might find his way in. Then she had led him back to the house, had bade him good-night from the top of the wide steps that led down from the hall, and had sent her household to bed. He had wandered the streets, savouring his two hours' waiting as only a poet knew how. Certainty, postponement, security, a strategic device, hours of joy without end, one final delay, a stream of mixed sensations, coursed through his blood and flooded his brain, driving him and elating him. The practical necessity of keeping his eye on his watch so as not to miss the appointed hour merely served to whet his appetite and to render his expectations more acute. At last he turned the key in the rusty lock and groped his way to her room. At the door he came to a halt. He wished to relish the idea that here, two weeks ago, he had been ushered in, a stranger, where now he was privileged to enter as a lover.

The room was unlighted, but in the soft radiance of the moon he could see Olivia's outline on the shore that lay beyond the blue sea of carpet. Tonight, in one second, he flew to his haven of love. Without saying a word she drew him to her, flooding him in the waves of her long golden tresses. He pushed aside the white cloak that covered her, his hungry lips devouring the breasts she lifted towards him.

When, many hours later, Andreas rose from the couch, he shivered with cold, for he was naked, and Olivia, lying motionless, bade him put on a robe she had brought from Damascus, and which she loved. The moon had not set, and in its pale light Andreas in his long gold-embroidered gown, his raven hair disordered by her loving fingers, looked like an Arab, dark, slender, and burned by the hot summer sun. Her head pillowed on her arm, she lay there inert, gazing up at him. Then he heard the lovely alto voice saying:

"Hafiz!"

"Venetian beauty," was his quick response.

And she: "If I am ever to be loved by a Moor, I would have you for my Othello."

His face twitched, and she remembered too late what that name must mean to him. She quickly rose and came towards him:

"Andreas!"

She drew him to the window the better to read his countenance. Like black lace, the delicate tracery of the trees swayed against the night sky. The mighty stream flowed on, dreaming its dreams, softly murmuring to itself, no longer enlivened with the twinkling lights, while in the blue-black distance the line of the hills on the farther side of the river rose and fell along the horizon.

"Speak to me, Andreas."

She clasped him, and he, while fondling her hair, looked over and beyond her to those distant hills where Diana tonight was sojourning. "What is she doing? Is she gazing forth from her tent over the wide steppe, oblivious of the man who is kneeling at her feet?"

Olivia's eyes, too, had travelled to those same hills. Like the sound of distant drums she heard her memories marching by, heard the mad wooing of the count in the days when he had been her lover, heard his cynically wanton words as he had, increasingly, become the husband and nothing more. She saw Diana's compact breasts as the girl had stood before her dressed in a simple linen frock, saw Diana standing at her side in this same window, murmuring: "You are beautiful."

Andreas, too, felt peculiarly lucid. His brain seemed lighted up as a great hall will be lighted for a festivity. His memories radiated before him, never had he seen so clearly before. There was the statue in its niche, the statue of a naked amazon which had so often lured him to the Vatican last winter. The vision took on life; Diana herself stepped down from the niche and stood before him, but as he put out his hand to touch her, the figure of the count came between, and carried her off, laughing....

CHAPTER NINE

At the selfsame hour, Diana awoke. She lay on a big rug, looked around her with sleep-laden eyes, and tried to remember what had happened. Gregor was asleep. She shivered in the chill morning air, and drew a blanket off her camp-bed which had not been used, covering both herself and the man at her side. As she did so, she glanced down at him and smiled to see how childlike was his slumber. Had she moved too suddenly, or was it merely the consciousness that her eyes were upon him? Who can tell? But at that moment he awoke, turned quickly as if danger threatened, looked around, saw Diana, remembered all, and smiled in his turn. He leaned over her, bending her face back to kiss her.

The hour of his conquest over her had been a light-hearted one, sportive and gay. Everything had lent enchantment to their union, the spirit of adventure fired their blood, the fact that each shared the same secret and that only the thin canvas wall of the tent screened them from inquisitive eyes, the grass of the steppe on which they lay, the memory of every word they had exchanged, the expectant waiting, the hopes that had filled their hearts, the delicious novelty of appealing to one another without the exchange of a single syllable, the sense of solitude, the enforced silence which caution constrained them to, all this and a hundred other influences of time and place had carried the pair onward on a mighty wave of rapturous daring, so that it was as if two beasts of the wilderness were playfully endeavouring to overcome one another. The reawakened yearning to recapture his lost youth, a yearning which had filled Gregor's whole being since he had met Diana, had gradually disappeared as day followed day which was to lead to this excursion, to this night of fulfilment.

Diana had not repelled him, for she was a woman who never closed the doors on nature's impulses; and when she felt his sensitive hands trembling within her own, the words he longed to hear fell simply from her lips. The man, for all his experience of love, had been shy as a boy in his attitude towards the enigma of this woman; he who was used to command had besought; his grey hairs notwithstanding, he had wooed her like a youth; all this had touched her, rather than carried her off her feet. He himself was unaware of the unusual emotional stress which once more after the lapse of decades, had transformed the connoisseur into a bashful wooer and the spoilt darling of so many female hearts into one who must use all his arts of cajolery to induce his love to bestow her gifts upon him. His tenderness, his supplicating desire, had made her conclude that a great change, a change he was blissfully unaware of, had taken place in the man at her side.

The physical intimacy was, however, no more than the sign that his whole nature was about to enter a new springtime, for Gregor Count of Münsterberg, despite his many love adventures, had during these last ten years been a very lonely man. In the days when Olivia was everything to him he had come implicitly to rely on her, giving her his all with a lavishness not unlike Andreas's spendthrift love—though in other respects the two men's dispositions were in such complete contrast.

"Diana, have you slept? Are you cold? Would you like a glass of water?"

He tucked her up, solicitous for her comfort; he slipped his arm under her and petted and caressed her as if he had done her an injury. He could not look upon the events of that night with the eyes of a conqueror; he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, for she had been so tender and, as it seemed to him, had yielded to him through complaisance, rather than from passion. He whispered:

"Are you angry? Do you forgive me? Sweet Diana!"

She smiled as she replied, equally softly:

"You are good."

"Won't you call me by my name?"

"Gregor!"

"Once again."

"Gregor!"

"Ah, that was boldly spoken, as you said it today—no, yesterday, when we were riding together."

"Tell me, why did you call out Diana then?"

"Because I was thinking of you like that, just at the moment when your horse shied. Had you never thought of me by name?"

"Yes, once."

"When?"

"As you left me that day we talked about the motto on your coat-of-arms."

"And then you thought of me as Gregor. Only that once? I always thought of you as Diana whenever you came into my mind."

"When was that, I pray?"

"Constantly."

"Oh, come."

"It's true. Constantly; at breakfast: Diana will be going for a sail. While at work: that's not clear, not very practical—Diana would have done it better. At dinner: Diana has a fine palate for wines. Out riding, engaged in conversation, even while dictating dispatches, always Diana is in my thoughts, for she grasps my meaning, knows what I want, understands, so much quicker than any one else."

She raised herself on her elbow and leaned over him, stroked his hair, and pushed the grey locks away from his brow.

"How white your forehead is, how beautifully shaped," she whispered. Then she hummed very softly to herself, a velvety sound like that made by the drowsy horses outside as they rubbed their heads one against the other. "It's a pity to keep it hidden under this mass of grey hair. Have you ever tried brushing it back?"

"A high forehead makes a man look older. Besides, my hair is whiter still underneath. The way one wears the hair is a fine art which even Peter, my man, is incapable of achieving. I am always my own hairdresser."

"Why?"

He suddenly seized her by the hair:

"I wish your chestnut locks could stay that colour for ever."

"I don't wish it at all. Or, perhaps to be quite truthful, the wish might cross my mind occasionally. Still, I know that when my time comes I shall not pull one grey hair out. We must not run counter to nature."

"You believe that?" he asked, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "Am I running counter to nature when I...?" He stole a look at her, and waited for her to complete his thought. But she played with the fringe of the rug and held her peace. He took her hand, and bent towards her so as to compel her to look him in the eyes. "You might easily be my daughter..."

She answered very slowly:

"Say, rather, that you might well be my son."

Hand in hand the two sat gazing at one another, Diana and Gregor, on the rug widespread among the dry herbage of the steppe, in the softly diffused moonlight which struggled through the thin canvas of the tent.

What did Diana see?

The vision of this man in his youthful prime, transparent, so that the story of his life stood revealed. Those blue eyes had never blenched at what life chose to offer him. They had flashed upon the world their searching fires. Now their look was turned inward, earnest, and inexpressibly lonesome. Those lips, once so firm, were now sunk between furrows telling of a disillusionment in strange contrast to the strength expressed in the straight, high-pitched nose and the salient chin, proclaiming as they did the resolution with which this man sought power and ever more power in compensation for the loss of his capacity for enjoyment.

And Gregor, what were his thoughts while he sat in the pale light filtering through the tent as the moon set?

He felt as if he were coming into closer contact with humanity as a whole, not merely with the twenty-five year old creature at his side. He saw as it were in timeless and ageless shape, before her and behind her as she sat, the form of a child and of a woman. Slowly, the meaning of her last words and of his became disentangled from the vision. How explain the mystery of sexual union? He brooded upon this, not in relation to what had happened this night, but as something remote and intangible. How not shudder in the placid morning light at the madness of venturing to penetrate into the life of another being, and yet hope neither to kill that being nor to suffer death at its hands? He was painfully aware of the weight of the years that lay upon him. Had he not hitherto always been as a god showering happiness on the woman of his choice? But now, what had he to bestow on this young thing whose hand lay so confidingly in his own?

From those delicate lips that had kissed him last night as if their owner were asleep, from those cheeks whose oval was so pure, which sun and wind had bronzed and made so firm a setting for the face, from those short, boyish curls which seemed wilfully to renounce all womanly lure, above all from the solemn fire of her brown eyes, he drew so powerful a sense of vital security, so mighty an assurance of youth's everlasting renewal, that he was overwhelmed with gratitude and could only bow his grey head, kiss her hand, and rest his forehead in her lap.

She loosed the flap of the tent and threw it back without disturbing him. Far away on the eastward margin of the steppe the sky was pale with the earliest flicker of dawn. The tiny breeze came cold and sharp upon her, so that she drew the folds of the silk cloak tighter around her. For a moment she thought of a morning on the island when she had likewise waked up to find herself in the open. But the head resting in her lap that day had dark hair.... Where was Andreas now? Alone?

Many minutes went by before the grizzled man raised his head again. The blue eyes were so earnest that one might have thought they had never been aglow with laughter all yesterday. Slowly Gregor pulled aside the silken folds that covered her, and laid her bosom bare. His movements were tender and delicate, as with an artist's appreciation he passed his sensitive fingers over the small bronzed breasts, while Diana sat spellbound, motionless....

CHAPTER TEN

It was not yet five o'clock, but the party was already under way. The track was steep and rough, for few shepherds or travellers ever came to these remote and savage parts. In single file, they pushed up the hill, the horses stumbling through the stunted vegetation. The company was silent, each member deep in thought, each suspecting but unwilling to give words to the suspicion—although the baron and his wife had exchanged a word or two before breaking camp. Upwards in zigzags went the path leading to the temple, and only at the top-most bend would they have their first, amazing view of the object of their pilgrimage.

Kopp was the one to break the spell. His seaman's eye, accustomed to read the signs on vast expanses of water, was quick to detect a moving particle in the plain they had left behind. The speck halted, went this way and that, resumed its onward course, stopped again—it must be an animal.

"Can that be a wild beast?" he asked at length.

"Where?"

"Over there," he said pointing to the speck in the distance.

They reined in, and all eyes travelled in the direction of his finger.

"What the dickens can it be?"

"It's following the trail we made yesterday."

"Yes, look, now it's reached our camping place."

"It's a dog!"

"Impossible! That's not a dog's shape."

"But it is! A Great Dane."

"Extraordinary creature! One would think it was on our scent."

"Whose in particular do you think?"

"Who can tell!"

Diana it was who had exclaimed: "It's a dog!" On the instant she had recognized Othello, and knew whom he was in search of.

On came the dog, faster and ever faster, following the curves of the narrow path. All the party awaited his coming with ill-concealed excitement. Now he had passed the grooms and the pack horses. He was sobbing for breath as he loped by. At last he came to a standstill at Diana's side, and looked up at her, whining gently. She stooped in the saddle to pat his head while he, his front paws resting on the horse's flank, endeavoured to reach her. The horse was already in a fidgety mood, and as the dog's paws touched him, he sprang aside. Diana saw the danger. The precipitous descent yawned beneath her. In a trice she had leapt out of the saddle and had landed safely on the path, with Othello upon her.

But Abdul, misunderstanding the gesture, and already indignant at the big fellow's intrusion, broke away from his master and, barking and growling, hurled himself upon Othello, attacking the great beast from the rear. Pandemonium broke loose. In and out among the legs of the unhappy horses the two dogs went, the mountain rising sheer above and the precipice falling away beneath. The greyhound barked and yapped its fury; the Great Dane, dignified even in combat, protested with deep bass growls. The greyhound swift and dexterous in his movements, the other heavy and strong in his defence. Abdul had been knocked out by a tap from Othello's great paw, but the plucky little fellow was up and attacking again in a trice. Then the big dog gripped his assailant by the leg with his teeth and with one smack with his front paw sent the little beast rolling in the dust.

Diana had till now watched the fight in speechless amazement and fear, for she knew Othello's strength and could only hope Gregor's greyhound would be spared the full taste of the Great Dane's muscles. As Othello hurled his assailant from him, Diana seized the opportunity to call him to her side. He responded immediately, and with docile obedience went towards her while the count secured his own little beast. Othello placed his two front paws on Diana's shoulders, his head towering over her. Then he nestled his head in her neck while she patted him and spoke to him soothing endearments.

The rest of the company could only gape in foolish amazement, for none knew who this huge beast could be, and his size alarmed the natives who had never before seen a dog of such large proportions.

Baroness Linnartz was the first to recover her composure. She giggled shrilly and said:

"How touching!" Then turning to her husband she whispered: "Enigmatical creature! Fancy travelling about with a dog of that size and not even to keep it properly locked up and under control. Had you any idea she possessed such an animal?"

"I wonder how he tracked her down? We've been on horseback all the time," muttered the baron perplexedly.

"Quite within the realm of possibility. I had something much the same happen to me once," said Gregor.

All were now speaking at once, each telling of their own or other people's experience; even the natives by their gestures made it plain that they, too, had seen such a thing before. At last the caravan set forward again, the prince observing reflectively:

"It's enough to put us to the blush, an animal like that, running ten or at least eight hours on end and then, at the last, when he reaches his master, rejoicing as if he had found a saviour."

Kopp, who had been more deeply impressed than the others, said rather sententiously:

"What a beautiful picture we had when the dog put his paws on the young woman's shoulders!"

The prince had thought the same, but felt that if he expressed it in words he would be guilty of sentimentality, so he turned the conversation from this dangerous ground, and cried:

"Invasion of northern imperialism into the peninsula in the person of a Bismarckian dog!"

Abdul was put on the lead and taken to the rear, but no one ventured to take Othello's liberty from him. Gregor had dismounted, and had handed the bridles of his and Diana's horses to one of the grooms.

Diana, preceded by Gregor and with Othello at her heels, silently continued up the hill on foot. After his first demonstration, the dog had not shown any further sign of affection save when from time to time he rubbed his great head against her thigh. The count felt instinctively that Othello was a rival, or at least a creature who had robbed him of a part of her affection. He felt vexed, for his whole mind was absorbed in the endeavour to win her completely for himself. After a while he asked:

"Have you been hiding that superb animal from me all this time? Where was he that day I called on you at your hotel?"

"He does not belong to me."

"Not yours?" questioned Gregor tentatively.

"He lived with me some months ago. Now he's found out where I am and has followed me."

"It's all so perplexing. Diana, do tell me..."

"To me, life is a game, Gregor. On the deck of the ship in which I am voyaging the reflection of lights will fall from time to time, lights from the lands or the islands I have visited in times gone past. They turn and twist about as they cross my path. Then the ship sails once more into the shadows. Othello is a messenger from one of those isles. Can you understand?"

Gregor loved her to speak like this, although he knew quite well that she chose her words deliberately so as not to betray her secrets. He was too used to the intrigues inseparable from political life to allow himself to be beguiled by her smile, but he felt it wiser to subdue his feeling of jealousy, and therefore said loud enough for all to hear:

"Yes, a capital dog. But we'll have to keep him and Abdul apart. They're likely to be sworn enemies."

Diana, who, according to her wont, had read an omen into the encounter between the two dogs, was disquieted by these words, though Gregor himself had no ulterior meaning in his mind. For him they were nothing more than a plain statement of fact. But Diana looked at him searchingly, trying to plumb his strength, his vital energy. As she looked, another figure took shape beside Gregor, that of Othello's master. She contemplated them as two rivals, just as the dogs were, antagonists, and in a flash it was borne in upon her that these two men symbolized the everlasting clash between youth and age, age and youth.

Gregor, wholly unconscious of her searching observation, pursued his way up the mountain, deep in thought as to who could be the link between this animal and Diana. Who, he asked himself, was there in their mutual circle of acquaintances who took an interest in dogs? He tried to recall which among the many callers at the embassy had ever bent towards the ground in order to pat Abdul and to speak to him like a friend. Suddenly the young poet came into his mind. Yes, Andreas had noticed Abdul every time he had come to the house. Other recollections crowded upon him. Olivia's intention to ask young Seeland to dine with her yesterday evening! A multitude of possibilities jigged and capered before his eyes. He began to look upon his escapade of this night with the eyes of an ordinary member of society, became conscious of infidelity, a reproach he had never felt before in all his other love episodes. Without turning round he asked with as casual a tone as he could muster:

"Young Seeland seems to be a very interesting fellow, don't you think?"

Diana had been so engrossed in her own thoughts, vaguely musing on Andreas and the island, Andreas and Olivia, that she was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Her hand which had been stroking Othello's head as she walked, stopped abruptly, and her left eyelid twitched ever so slightly—the only sign she ever gave of being surprised. Controlling her emotion, however, she said very quietly:

"Yes, you are right."

"The countess speaks favourably of his poems. Do you happen to know them?"

"Fairly well."

"What do you think of them?"

"They're beautiful."

"I'll have to read them, then."

Diana was grateful that he did not pursue the conversation further.

The sun had not yet risen above the hill whose flank they had now been scaling for two hours. They were eager for the reward of their trouble and fatigue. Silence had fallen upon them again as they grappled with the steepest part of the ascent. The baroness, filled with curiosity and with ambition to be the first on the spot, had pushed forward so as to ride immediately behind the guide, who was a good way in advance of the main caravan. She was in the sunshine already, so the pass they were making for must be near at hand. Suddenly the quietude of this unpeopled mountain fastness was broken by a shrill cry. Baroness Linnartz, preening herself upon her victory, was hallooing down to them:

"Lovely! Better than Girgenti! Hurry up, do!"

She disappeared over the rise, followed by her husband.

Kopp, on arriving at the top, found nothing to say but: "Donnerwetter!"

The prince, coming up close behind him, whistled a fourth through his teeth in order to cover up his amazement.

Gregor and Diana continued to climb in the prince's wake. The count had twice been here before. He knew the little dip in the path whence the first view could be had, and as he was about to reach it he drew aside to allow Diana to pass. This charming little gesture, a mere nothing in itself, the delicacy of feeling that lay behind his desire that she should glimpse the temple first, touched Diana and warmed her heart towards the man. She threw him a loving glance as she passed in front. Her nature was as sensitive as it was strong, as intuitive and refined as it was steeled and simple. Such kindly little attentions were greatly appreciated by her. She would give her all for a tender motion of the hand, for a wooing glance, for an unobtrusive and affectionate piece of courtesy such as Gregor had just displayed in letting her go forward to get the first view of the temple. Perhaps this little demonstration of delicate consideration was necessary to restore her balance, so that she might be in a fit state to enjoy the mighty picture she was about to contemplate.

A landscape conjured together on a heroic scale spread itself before her, mile upon mile of mountain and hollow stretching far away towards the sea which was sparkling in the rays of the early sun. In a clearing of the evergreen wood, just below the crest of the hills, grey in the orange light, stood the temple, its Doric columns unimpaired, though roof there was none. The great arms of the mountains compassed it about; but through a gap in their ranks, the sea was visible, while away to the west the mighty river-spread of inland waters glowed darkly, still shadowed by the mountains on its banks. As she gazed, the sun swung high above the hilltops, catching the grey columns in a beam of light.

All had dismounted, and, as their temperaments prompted, had stood still, or walked round, or approached the temple. The baron was especially delighted with the precision of its structure, praising the way in which each section of the columns "fitted like a glove." His wife had spread the ground plans and sketches out on the steps, and had forced the captain to examine every detail so as to see whether everything had been duly recorded on the sheets. The prince had wandered farther afield and had found a fig tree. He stretched his long arms up till he could pluck the fruit, then seated himself beneath the tree with two or three of the grey-green figs in his hands, and, while he sucked the red heart out of them, his eyes took in the scene of which the columns formed the centre. Silently he contemplated them, comparing, balancing, enjoying, criticizing; and his mind vacillated between thoughts of the men who had built the temple, and a peculiarly succulent strawberry jam they made at home whose savour had been called up by the taste of the rosy pulp of the fruit he now had in his hand.

Gregor strode up to where Diana had dismounted. For him, the landscape held nothing but her picture. She stood in her boyish attire by the side of her horse, with the reins loosely hanging over her arm, while with the other hand she shaded her eyes from the sun. A pine tree formed a background for her as, bathed in the glowing light—the little horse to one side of her, and the huge dog to the other—she gazed transfixed at the scene before her, aloof, forgetful of the why and wherefore of the journey. And Gregor knew from her expression and her aspect that up here in this mountain quietude, in despite of the long ride and of all that the night had held, nothing existed for her but the vision of the flawless morning as it rose towards her from the distant sea.

Gregor's whole being was flooded with the solemnity of the hour; now more than ever he became aware of the essential unity of youth and maturity, of knowledge and physical energy, with which he had been struck at his first glimpse of her. He fancied he could detect in her face at this moment, yes at this very moment, that look he had rarely seen in women, and then only at the instant of love's surrender. Loath to disturb her, he nevertheless drew near to her, and, speaking softly, with the tremor of desire in his tone, he spoke her name:

"Diana!"

She did not stir, but murmured:

"Look! The sea!"

He stood slightly to the back of her, and in spirit swept her to him in a wide embrace, while he vowed never, never again to let her out of his hands.

From where he sat under his fig tree, the prince had been watching them as they vowed themselves, one to youth, the other to sunshine and the sea. He whistled softly through his teeth.