she was thinking of her soul as of a body, as if it were the core of the body blackened, sullied, destroyed for ever.  She was hot with shame, she was hot with a fiery indignation.  Always, since she was a child, if she were suddenly touched by anyone whom she did not love, she had had an inclination to strike a blow on the one who touched her.  Now it was as if an unclean hand had been laid on her soul.  And the soul quivered with longing to strike back.

Again she thought of Beni-Mora, of all that had taken place there.  She realised that during her stay there a crescendo of calm had taken place within her, calm of the spirit, a crescendo of strength, spiritual strength, a crescendo of faith and of hope.  The religion which had almost seemed to be slipping from her she had grasped firmly again.  Her soul had arrived in Beni-Mora an invalid and had become a convalescent.

It had been reclining wearily, fretfully.  In Beni-Mora it had stood up, walked, sung as the morning stars sang together.  But then—­why?  If this was to be the end—­why—­why?

And at this question she paused, as before a great portal that was shut.  She went back.  She thought again of this beautiful crescendo, of this gradual approach to the God from whom she had been if not entirely separated at any rate set a little apart.  Could it have been only in order that her catastrophe might be the more complete, her downfall the more absolute?

And then, she knew not why, she seemed to see in the hands that were pressed against her face words written in fire, and to read them slowly as a child spelling out a great lesson, with an intense attention, with a labour whose result would be eternal recollection: 

“Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not.  When weary it is not tired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it is not disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mounteth upwards and securely passeth through all.  Whosover loveth knoweth the cry of this voice.”

The cry of this voice!  At that moment, in the vast silence of the desert, she seemed to hear it.  And it was the cry of her own voice.  It was the cry of the voice of her own soul.  Startled, she lifted her face from her hands and listened.  She did not look out at the tent door, but she saw the moonlight falling upon the matting that was spread upon the sand within the tent, and she repeated, “Love watcheth—­Love watcheth—­Love watcheth,” moving her lips like the child who reads with difficulty.  Then came the thought, “I am watching.”

The passion of personal anger had died away as suddenly as it had come.  She felt numb and yet excited.  She leaned forward and once more laid her face in her hands.

“Love watcheth—­I am watching.”  Then a moment—­then—­“God is watching me.”