"To tell the truth," she said, "I have always felt that. There is an impassable barrier between East and West."
She looked at the distant light among the palm-trees. Then, with contempt, she added: "Those who try to overleap it must be mad, or worse."
Nigel's face grew stern.
"Yes," he said. "I loathe condemnation. But there are some things which really are unforgivable."
He swung out his arm towards the light.
"And that is one of them. I hate to see that light so near us. It is the only blot on perfection."
"Don't look at it," she murmured.
His unusual expression of vigorous, sane disgust, and almost of indignation, partly fascinated and partly alarmed her.
"Don't think of it. It has nothing to do with us. Hark! What's that?"
A clear note, like the note of a little flute, sounded from the farther side of the stream, was reiterated many times. Nigel's face relaxed. The sternness vanished from it, and was replaced by an ardent expression that made it look almost like the face of a romantic boy.
"It's--it's the Egyptian Pan by the water," he whispered.
His arm stole round her waist.
"Come a little nearer--gently. That's it! Now listen!"
The little, clear, frail sound was repeated again and again.
The young moon went down behind the palm-trees. Its departure, making the night more dark, made the distant light in the grove seem more clear, more definite, more brilliant.
It drew the eyes, it held the eyes of Bella Donna as the Egyptian Pan piped on.