In front stood her father, staring at her and waving his hands mysteriously in obedience to Jacob’s directions.  So ridiculous did he look indeed while thus engaged that Benita had the greatest difficulty in preventing herself from bursting into laughter.  This was the only effect which his grimaces and gesticulations produced upon her, although outwardly she kept a solemn appearance, and even from time to time shut her eyes to encourage him.  Once, when she opened them again, it was to perceive that he was becoming very hot and exhausted, and that Jacob was watching him with such an unpleasant intentness that she re-closed her eyes that she might not see his face.

It was shortly after this that of a sudden Benita did feel something, a kind of penetrating power flowing upon her, something soft and subtle that seemed to creep into her brain like the sound of her mother’s lullaby in the dim years ago.  She began to think that she was a lost traveller among alpine snows wrapped round by snow, falling, falling in ten myriad flakes, every one of them with a little heart of fire.  Then it came to her that she had heard this snow-sleep was dangerous, the last of all sleeps, and that its victims must rouse themselves, or die.

Benita roused herself just in time—­only just, for now she was being borne over the edge of a precipice upon the wings of swans, and beneath her was darkness wherein dim figures walked with lamps where their hearts should be.  Oh, how heavy were her eyelids!  Surely a weight hung to each of them, a golden weight.  There, there, they were open, and she saw.  Her father had ceased his efforts; he was rubbing his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief, but behind him, with rigid arms outstretched, his glowing eyes fastened on her face, stood Jacob Meyer.  By an effort she sprang to her feet, shaking her head as a dog does.

“Have done with this nonsense,” she said.  “It tires me,” and snatching one of the lamps she ran swiftly down the place.

Benita expected that Jacob Meyer would be very angry with her, and braced herself for a scene.  But nothing of the sort happened.  A while afterwards she saw the two of them approaching, engaged apparently in amicable talk.

“Mr. Meyer says that I am no mesmerist, love,” said her father, “and I can quite believe him.  But for all that it is a weary job.  I am as tired as I was after our escape from the Matabele.”

She laughed and answered: 

“To judge by results I agree with you.  The occult is not in your line, father.  You had better give it up.”

“Did you, then, feel nothing?” asked Meyer.

“Nothing at all,” she answered, looking him in the eyes.  “No, that’s wrong, I felt extremely bored and sorry to see my father making himself ridiculous.  Grey hairs and nonsense of that sort don’t go well together.”

“No,” he answered.  “I agree with you—­not of that sort,” and the subject dropped.