mountains and obeyed it, and from that moment the desert, like the
world, had no place in his thoughts; but since the night that Pearl had
danced it had remained in his mind, and had become to him as a far
horizon. The desert has ever been a factor in the consciousness of man,
not to be excluded, and although Seagreave did not realize it, the
moment had come in which he must reckon with it. He felt the fascination
and repulsion of its impenetrable mystery, of its stark and desolate
wastes, whose spell is yet so potent in the imagination of man, that
many have found in its barren horror the very heart of beauty. He
wondered if the uncontaminated winds which blew from out the ages across
the vast, empty spaces murmured a message of greater import than that
whispered to him among the mountain tops, if the wings of light which
beat unceasingly above its shifting sands lifted the soul to some
undreamed of realm of eternal morning. Something that slept deep within
him stirred faintly; the old passion to adventure, to explore rose in
his heart, his restless, reckless heart, which had, so he believed,
found peace.

The shadow deepened in his eyes, but he suddenly roused from this
momentary abstraction to find that Pearl was still speaking.

"Yes, I love them because they are so beautiful, but I love them, too,
because they are valuable."

"Well, there is no question about your making all the money you wish,"
he said, a slight weariness in his tone, "thousands and thousands. The
world will fling it at you. It will cover you with jewels."

She smiled, a faint, secretive smile of triumph. Ah, so he recognized
that. She had made him feel and admit that she was one of the few great