snows that lie on the mountains of Judaea, and come down into the valleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea . . . There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body.”
Oliver Haddo ceased to play. Neither of them stirred. At last Margaret sought by an effort to regain her self-control.
“I shall begin to think that you really are a magician,” she said, lightly.
“I could show you strange things if you cared to see them,” he answered, again raising his eyes to hers.
“I don’t think you will ever get me to believe in occult philosophy,” she laughed.
“Yet it reigned in Persia with the magi, it endowed India with wonderful traditions, it civilised Greece to the sounds of Orpheus’ lyre.”
He stood before Margaret, towering over her in his huge bulk; and there was a singular fascination in his gaze. It seemed that he spoke only to conceal from her that he was putting forth now all the power that was in him.
“It concealed the first principles of science in the calculations of Pythagoras. It established empires by its oracles, and at its voice tyrants grew pale
